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[25 Cts; 


Appletons’ 

New Handy-Volume Series. 


GORDON BALDWIN, 


PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


BY 

RUDOLPH LINDAU. 



NEW YORK: 

D. APPLETON &. COMPANY, PUBLISHERS. 


Copyright by D. Appleton & Co., 1878. 


APPLETONS’ 


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APPLETONS’ NEW HANDY-VOLUME SERIES. V. 


GORDON BALDWIN, 

AND 

THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


BY 

RUDOLPH LINDAU. 
» ' 


lC>Cioj- 

i 


NEW YORK: 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

549 AND 551 BROADWAY. 

1878. 




V 

I 




COPYEIGIIT BY 

D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 
1878. 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


I. 

Geoege Foebes had spared neither time nor 
money in furnishing his bachelor-apartments as 
handsomely as possible. He possessed some ex- 
perience ; he had seen many countries and many 
people ; and he was so rich that even in New 
York, his native city, people talked about his 
large ” fortune. Under these circumstances, it 
is not difficult for a man, particularly if he inhab- 
its Paris, to gain among his friends the reputation 
of possessing a fine taste. Forbes had, in the 
first place, consulted a talented young artist ; he 
had then employed for many months the best 
Parisian workmen, and had given his upholsterer 
carte blanche. By this rather expensive hut very 
simple method he had succeeded in furnishing 
his house near the Champs-Elysees both taste- 
fully and comfortably. The paintings by Corot, 
Rousseau, Diaz, Rosa Bonheur, and others, which 


4 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


adorned his drawing-room, study, and dining- 
room, ranked among the acknowledged master- 
pieces of those artists. The large Rubens in his 
bedroom was undoubtedly genuine ; the chande- 
liers and clock were models of French art ; and 
nowhere could be found more comfortable easy- 
chairs and sofas than in the cozy rooms of the 
“ Hotel Forbes ” in the Rue Dumont d’Urville. 

During one whole week after Forbes had 
taken possession of his house, he had wandered 
every morning with renewed delight through the 
rooms of his new home with a feeling of pride, 
as though all the beautiful objects which gave 
him so much pleasure had been his own work. 
He had received with a self-satisfied smile the 
compliments which all his visitors paid him on 
his exquisite taste ; but very soon he became as 
accustomed to his pictures, his china, and his 
bronzes, as to his comfortable chairs and his good 
cook : and at the time we make his acquaintance, 
about four years after he had settled in Paris, all 
the splendid works of art which surrounded him 
in his house could no longer attract his attention, 
even for an instant. 

George Forbes was now thirty-three, and the 
life which he led was, in spite of much apparent 
variety, a monotonous one. Seven months of the 
year he spent in Paris. During the summer he 
went from one fashionable watering-place to an- 
other. He might be seen at Trouville, at Biarritz, 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


5 


or in tho Pyrenees ; sometimes, also, he went to 
Baden or Homburg, where at that time the gam- 
bling-tables were still to be found. Once he had 
returned to the United States and shown his aris- 
tocratic, cold, hlase face in IN^ewport and Sara- 
toga. In Paris, where he lived during the winter 
and spring until the end of May, he usually took 
a ride in the morning in the Bois de Boulogne, 
breakfasted at home, yawned for an hour over 
the newspaper, his letters, or a novel, and some- 
times fell asleep over them ; then he paid a few 
visits or showed his beautiful horses in the Ave- 
nue de rimperatrice, and at seven o’clock he 
made his appearance at the Cafe Anglais or at 
Bignon’s, to take his dinner. After that he went 
to a theatre, or to some reception in the American 
colony. There he was an object of great interest 
to young widows and to mothers with grown-up 
daughters. He also met with men in this society, 
who, thinking that the young millionaire might 
prove a serviceable acquaintance, spared no trou- 
ble to make themselves agreeable to him. But 
Forbes was not grateful for the kindness shown 
him on all sides, and not one of his numerous 
acquaintances could boast of being on intimate 
and confidential terms with him. He was suspi- 
cious. In former years he had many times been 
deceived — a misfortune which may likewise hap- 
pen to poor people in this world; but he had never 
forgotten nor forgiven it, and he always feared 


6 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


that every one who approached him in a friendly 
manner wanted some of his money. The belief 
in unselfish kindness had never been very strong 
in him, and such little trustfulness as he had 
possessed he had lost long ago. Friendliness, as 
soon as it went beyond commonplace politeness, 
seemed to him interested fiattery, and made him 
still more reserved and cautious ; and so it had 
come to pass that young and honorable men, who 
under ordinary circumstances might have been 
his friends, felt themselves repelled and gradually 
withdrew from him ; finally his acquaintance in- 
cluded mainly men who richly deserved his sus- 
picious contempt for them. 

Late in the evening the lonely man went to 
his club. He played high, and often won consid- 
erable sums. He was a calm and cautious play- 
er. When he had luck on his side, he was ever 
ready to risk all his winnings, and he would put 
with equal coolness a few louis or a bundle of 
bank-notes on the table. But, when fortune was 
not favorable, he would only lose the money he 
had with him — at the outside a few thousand 
francs ; then he would rise with a yawn — ^he had 
the habit of yawning frequently — and go into the 
reading-room, look over the evening papers, and 
at a late hour drive home. 

He was a dangerous, careful, unpopular play- 
er. You might lose a fortune to him, but you 
would never win from him more than what he 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


7 


happened to have in his pocket. His oldest ac- 
quaintance had never seen him borrow money to 
go on playing with. 

One evening in the month of December, 186 -, 
Forbes came to his club as usual, at about eleven 
o’clock, and, after exchanging a few words with 
his friends, took his seat at the green table. He 
had won a considerable sum the night before, and 
a young man who had been one of the heaviest 
losers, Henry Wetmore, asked him in a friendly 
manner to take the bank himself. Forbes did not 
answer at once, but, when Wetmore repeated his 
request, he replied carelessly and in an undertone 
that it was not his habit to consider a new game 
as the continuation of a former one ; he was just 
beginning to play, and he could not yet say whether 
it might suit him on this occasion to take the bank 
or to play against it. 

‘‘These are very convenient rules,” said Wet- 
more, with a sneer. 

Forbes looked at him long and steadfastly, and 
after a painful pause said : “ I can only express 
my regret if you are vexed because you lost yes- 
terday. I cannot think for a moment that you 
wish to pick a quarrel with me ; you have no right 
to dictate to me how to play, nor do I imagine 
that you claim that right. But, if you believe I 
owe you your revenge, pray name the sum for 
which you wish to play against me, and it will 
give me great pleasure to place myself at your 


8 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


disposal.” Every one present felt for poor Wet- 
more, who had borrowed with great difficulty the 
money to pay his debt that evening, and who in 
his heart was cursing his fortunate and powerful 
adversary. But Forbes knew he had the right on 
his side, while Wetmore felt that he stood alone, 
and that the wisest thing he could do was to let 
the matter drop. He muttered with a touch of 
ill-humor j but politely nevertheless: ‘‘You take 
the matter too seriously ; I did not mean it so.” 

Forbes counted his money, played even more 
cautiously than usual, lost a trifle, and went home 
at about two o’clock. After he had left the club, 
Wetmore began again to complain of him, and 
this time everybody agreed to his strictures. 

“ There is one thing that comforts me,” he said 
in conclusion, “and that is, that Forbes never 
really enjoys his game. I get vexed sometimes 
when I lose, but then I am all the better pleased 
when I happen to win. Forbes is always bored, 
and it serves the disagreeable rich fellow right.” 

Forbes, on his way home, knew perfectly well 
that at that very moment they were abusing him 
at the club, and that not one of his numerous ac- 
quaintances, WHO were in the habit of meeting him 
with a friendly smile, would think of taking his 
part in his absence. 

The next morning, while riding in the Bois de 
Boulogne, he made some plans for traveling. 

“ I will go for a few weeks to Nice, and Flor- 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


9 


ence, and Rome,” he said to himself. Perhaps 
I may amuse myself a little more there than here. 
At any rate, I shall see some new faces, and not 
always that fellow Wetmore and the rest of them. 
The whole set is insufferable.” 

When, an hour later, he returned home, his 
servant handed him two letters which had just 
arrived. He placed them, without even looking 
at them, on the table, and it was only after he had 
dressed and found that there was still a quarter of 
an hour before breakfast, that he threw himself 
into an easy-chair before the fire, and read them. 
The first ran thus : 


“ 97 Avenue Friedland, Wednesday, 

^^Dear Mr. Forbes : It will give us much 
pleasure if you will dine with us on Friday next, 
at seven o’clock. Yours very sincerely, 

Marie Lelakd, n^e De Montemars.” 

‘^That woman never forgets to remind one 
that she comes from a noble family, and that she 
has married old Leland only for his money. JVee 
De Montemars ! What is that to me ? But never 
mind ; Jane Leland is a handsome, clever girl, and 
I have nothing better to do on Friday. I will ac- 
cept the invitation.” 

The note was carefully replaced in its envelope 
and laid aside. 

The second letter was a longer one. As soon 


10 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


as Forbes had looked at the address and recog- 
nized the writing, he opened it with an angry 
frown ; he then read with great attention : 

“Hakodate, September 2, 186-. 

‘^Dear George: You must do me the justice 
to admit that I have not troubled you for a long 
time with news of myself. Nor would I have 
wi’itten now could I have avoided it. I know my 
letters give you no pleasure, and consequently I 
do not care much to write to you. I have, how- 
ever, nothing unpleasant to say, and I beg you not 
to throw this letter aside without reading it. 

“ When I arrived at Hakodate, four years ago, 
I made the acquaintance of a young Englishman, 
named Gordon Baldwin; although I had no claim 
upon him, he received me into his house with the 
greatest kindness, and I was his guest during sev- 
eral months. I had long been unaccustomed to kind 
treatment. Baldwin’s goodness made a deep im- 
pression upon me, and I felt very grateful to him. 
I conceived a great affection for him; and he, see- 
ing this, I suppose, also took a liking for me. I 
had so long been tossed about like a ship without 
a rudder, finding neither place nor safety, that I 
scarcely dared to hope that fortune had led me at 
last into a haven of rest. As it was my intention 
to leave Hakodate in a few months, I was not as 
reserved in my conversation with Baldwin as I 
ought perhaps to have been : I meant no harm by 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


11 


being communicative ; I did not think myself 
bound to spoil the pleasure of our friendly inter- 
course by a suspicious reticence. I cannot boast 
of that calm reserve which distinguishes you. 

“ So I told Baldwin, during the long walks we 
took together, something of my history. I did not 
disclose my true name, for I would not break the 
promise I had given to you. I called myself Gra- 
ham. I told him that I had rich relations, from 
whom I was separated forever, through some 
misfortune, which I could not explain. I also 
spoke of you. You will think this strange; you 
would certainly never dream of speaking of me. 
But then we are different. I said nothing of you 
but what is good, praising your prudence, your 
coolness, and your energy. I spoke of the extraor- 
dinary success which has attended you through 
life, a success which you owe chiefly to your per- 
spicacity and determination. I said nothing of 
the ties which unite us, and I mentioned you mere- 
ly as a friend of my youth. As you see, I did not 
commit any great indiscretion. It can do you no 
harm that Baldwin, who is as simple-minded and 
as trusting as a child, should think that you once 
did a good turn to a poor devil of the name of 
Graham. 

“ Hakodate lies out of the beaten track. Besides 
the Japanese, there are only a few English, Ameri- 
can, and German merchants living here, and for- 
eign travelers seldom And their way to this place. 


12 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


‘‘ For many years I saw nothing that could re- 
mind me of the past, and I felt as though I were 
gradually awaking to a new life. I was success- 
ful in the first small speculations I attempted. 
Baldwin procured me credit in Yokohama, Shang- 
hai, and Hong-Kong, and so gave me the means of 
trying my unhoped-for good luck on a larger scale. 
All went well with me, and at the present day I 
possess a moderate, well-earned fortune, and am a 
respected member of the foreign community of 
Hakodate. All this I owe to Gordon Baldwin. 
But for him I must have gone to ruin ; for my 
means and my courage were equally exhausted 
when I landed in Yesso. 

“ A few weeks ago, Baldwin told me that, hav- 
ing spent six years in China and Japan, he had 
now the intention of taking a trip to Europe. 
While discussing this plan he mentioned your 
name, which he unfortunately remembered, al- 
though it had not passed my lips for a long time. 
I had told him formerly that you lived in Paris ; 
and he asked me, without having an idea that it 
might be unpleasant to me, to give him a letter of 
introduction to you. I could not w^ell refuse with- 
out laying myself open to suspicion. I might, in- 
deed, have invented some excuse, but I did not 
like to run the risk of chance bringing you to- 
gether. I have therefore given him a letter for 
you. Pray take into consideration the circum- 
stances under which this has happened, and ex- 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


13 


cuse the liberty I have taken. Remember how 
much I owe to Baldwin, and receive him kindly. 
I have given him to understand that it might be 
painful to you to speak of my past life, and I feel 
perfectly sure that he will avoid any allusion 
which might embarrass you. 

‘‘You will find my friend the best and noblest 
of men. He is a few years younger than you are, 
but his independent life in foreign lands has made 
him prematurely old. He comes of a good family; 
but all his near relations are dead, and he stands 
pretty nearly alone in the world. He is good- 
looking, well-informed, and well-bred. To com- 
plete my sketch I may add that he possesses a 
large fortune, and that his business in Hakodate, 
the management of which he has intrusted to me 
during his absence, has brought him in for some 
few years past from twenty to twenty-five thou- 
sand dollars annually. 

“ And now, my dear George, I will say good-by. 
I don’t expect an answer to this letter, and it is not 
likely that I shall soon have occasion to write to 
you again. With unchanged affection, 

“Yours, Thomas.” 

As Forbes finished reading the letter, his ser- 
vant entered and announced breakfast. He folded 
up the letter, put it in the side-pocket of his coat, 
and, with a thoughtful air, went into the dining- 
room. 


14 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


11 . 

In one of the most fashionable eaf^s of the 
Boulevard des Italiens, before a small table, which 
was laid for two people, sat a young man of be- 
tween twenty-five and twenty-eight years of age. 
His appearance had already attracted the atten- 
tion of the waiters, of the dame du comptoir^ and 
of several of the guests ; for although one could 
see at a glance that the stranger belonged to good 
society, yet, in this splendid room, so luxuriously 
furnished, and among the elegant ladies and gen- 
tlemen who were seated at the tables around him, 
he did not seem quite in his right place. He wore 
a faded traveling-suit, which, like himself, had 
evidently seen a good deal of rough weather. He 
had straight, light hair and clear, gray eyes, be- 
fore whose glance the inquisitive eyes of the guest 
who wished to examine him fell involuntarily and 
quickly. His nose and mouth were large, but 
well-shaped ; his forehead was high, and, as far as 
the hat had protected it, remarkably white. The 
rest of the lean, powerful face was much sun- 
burned, and contrasted strangely in color with the 
snowy-white forehead, the fair hair, and the gray- 
ish-blue eyes. Long, reddish mustaches fell low 
over the finely-cut mouth. The honest, fearless 
look, the small, round head, the broad shoulders, 
the powerful chest, the large, well-formed, sinewy 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


15 


hands, and the long legs, presented altogether an 
appearance which recalled times long gone by. 
An iron helmet and a heavy sword would have 
better suited the stranger than the black-silk hat 
and the slight cane whiSh the waiter had taken 
from him when he first entered the room. 

The young man had looked several times at 
his watch, and as soon as the clock struck seven 
he beckoned to one of the waiters. 

Give me a good dinner,” he said. 

Does not monsieur wish to order anything in 
particular ? ” 

‘‘No, I leave that to you. Bring me a good 
dinner.” 

“ By your order I laid covers for two.” 

“ Yes, but it seems my friend is not coming. 
He may perhaps be late, and you can serve him 
when he arrives.” 

The stranger spoke French fiuently, but with 
an unmistakable English accent. The experienced 
waiter, who during ten years had seen great and 
noble personages from all parts of the world, 
classed the new guest under the head of “ a crazy 
lord, who has been shooting tigers in India, and 
wants now to beat Parisian preserves.” 

The supposed lord had finished his oysters, 
soup, and entree^ and was about to do justice to 
a more substantial dish that had been placed be- 
fore him, when the door opened, and George 
Forbes, dressed with faultless elegance, entered 


16 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


the room. He bowed to the lady at the comptoir 
and stopped before the sunburned stranger, who 
merely looked up, and, without allowing himself 
to be disturbed in his dinner, said : “You are 
late ; but, as you see, I did not let that interfere 
with me.” 

“ One must be punctual with you, it seems,” 
replied Forbes, with a smile. 

“No, I don’t care about that, so long as I am 
not expected to wait. Take a seat. I have al- 
ready ascertained that my appetite is better than 
yours, and, if you hurry a little, we may get to 
the dessert together.” 

Forbes did as he was told, and took up the bill- 
of-f are, which he seemed to study carefully. How 
was it that Baldwin, whom he had only known for 
five days, took liberties with him which none of 
liis Parisian acquaintances would have attempted ? 
Every one of them would have waited for him at 
least a quarter of an hour ; or, if they had not 
done so, would at any rate have offered some ex- 
cuse. Baldwin had not granted him a minute’s 
grace, and had never thought of apologizing. On 
the other hand, Forbes, who, as a rule, paid no 
attention to the feelings of others, and who was 
spoiled by the courteous attention which he re- 
ceived on all sides, not only thought Baldwin’s 
conduct perfectly natural, but even said in an un- 
dertone, “ I beg your pardon ; ” while the other 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


17 


nodded good-humoredly, as much as to say, “ Nev- 
er mind, I forgive you.” 

Only six days before, Forbes had received the 
following dispatch from Havre : Graham will 
have informed you of my arrival. I will call on 
you to-morrow morning. — Gordon Baldwin.” And 
on the following day, at ten o’clock, Mr. Gordon 
Baldwin — in an old, gray traveling-suit, and a soft 
felt hat, but with faultless linen-— had made his 
appearance. He had shaken Forbes’s hand heart- 
ily, like an old friend, and had talked at once 
in such a quiet, sensible, comfortable way, that 
Forbes, whose manner at first had been somewhat 
constrained and cold, had gradually assumed a 
more friendly countenance and had become almost 
sociable. 

An hour of pleasant conversation had quickly 
passed. Baldwin sat in an easy-chair, and talked 
about Japan, and Graham, and about his business 
and plans. Now and then he indulged in some 
humorous and always good-tempered remark, and 
then his bright eyes laughed so merrily that 
Forbes listened with a sincere and to him perfect- 
ly novel sense of pleasure. When the servant 
announced breakfast, Forbes invited the stranger 
to share it with him, and after the meal was over 
he asked Baldwin to stop at his house during the 
few days he intended to spend in Paris. Baldwin 
had accepted this offer with the same easy grace 
with which he had taken the cigar his host had 
2 


18 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


offered him ten minutes before, and which he was 
then smoking with visible enjoyment. 

Since then Forbes and Baldwin had been to- 
gether from morning to night, almost without in- 
terruption, and an intimacy of a peculiar sort had 
sprung up between these two men who were so 
totally unlike. Baldwin saw nothing strange in 
this, and never gave the matter a second thought; 
but Forbes was astonished. He could not under- 
stand why it was that, whenever he was with 
Baldwin, he felt himself to be a different and a 
better man than his usual self. He could talk and 
joke unreservedly with the wild man of Yesso,” as 
he called him, and more than once he had caught 
himself speaking to his new friend quite confi- 
dentially. Baldwin wanted absolutely nothing of 
Forbes : there lay the secret of the pleasant im- 
pression he had made on the suspicious rich man. 
He coveted neither his horses, nor his box at the 
opera, nor his money ; he ignored thoroughly and 
sincerely that his host was the “ rich Mr. Forbes.” 
He saw nothing in his new acquaintance but a 
pleasant companion. Forbes was conscious of 
this ; it was a new and refreshing feeling for him 
to associate with a man who wanted no favors of 
him — with a man, indeed, on whom he could con- 
fer no favors, even if he tried. 

“Well, what have you ordered?” asked 
Forbes, after he had taken his seat opposite to 
Baldwin. 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


19 


“ A good dinner.” 

“ I hope you will get it. What is it to he ? ” 

“ I don’t know yet ; hut I have an excellent 
appetite, and I am ready for any agreeable sur- 
prise. 

Did you leave the choice to the waiter ? ” 

Entirely.” 

Forhes smiled. 

Can you make out this nonsense ? ” continued 
Baldwin, taking up the hill-of-fare : ‘ Potage par- 
mentier ; filet de sole Joinville — why not Ne- 
mours or Montpensier ? — epigrammes d’agneau ; 
chaufroid de volaille,’ etc. I really understand 
the Ainos of Yesso a good deal better than this 
culinary jargon.” 

Forhes called the waiter, and in a peremptory 
manner, hut with many detailed instructions, or- 
dered a jchoice dinner. Baldwin, evidently 
amused, listened attentively. 

“ You know everything,!’ he said, with a smile. 
‘‘ You must he my teacher here.” 

‘‘With pleasure. By-the-hy, have you been 
to your tailor ? ” 

“ Of course.” 

“ When will you have your suit ? ” 

“ To-morrow night.” 

“ It is high time.” 

“ Is it, really ? ” said Baldwin, quietly. Then 
he examined attentively the sleeves of his coat, 
and said, thoughtfully : “ It is only a couple of 


20 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


montlis since this suit cost me a small fortune in 
San Francisco. True, it has seen a deal of rough 
weather on the prairies and on the Atlantic since 
then, hut it seems to me very good still. How- 
ever, after to-morrow I will appear before you in 
festive garments only.” 

At about half-past seven an elderly, gentle- 
man-like man, with an elegantly-dressed and hand- 
some young lady, entered the restaurant and took 
their seats at a table near our two friends. Forbes, 
who was sitting with his back to the new-comers, 
did not at first notice them, but the young lady 
quickly attracted the unobtrusive but admiring 
attention of Baldwin. This had not been unre- 
marked by her, and the eyes of the young Pari- 
sian and of the traveler met several times. At 
last Forbes became aware that something was go- 
ing on behind his back, and asked, carelessly : 

What are you looking at ? ” 

“ At a pretty face.” 

Forbes turned round slowly, then coloring 
slightly he rose, bowed, and went up to the table 
where the old gentleman and his young com- 
panion were seated. They received him in the 
most friendly manner. 

I suppose Mrs. Leland has not returned to 
Paris ? ” asked Forbes. 

“ No, we expect her to-morrow,” replied the 
old gentleman, “ and you see how we take advan- 
tage of our liberty. During the last four days 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


21 


we have not once dined at home. Jane wants me 
to show her the Parisian restaurants, and like a 
well-trained father I make it a point to obey her.” 

“ Is that gentleman your friend of whom you 
spoke yesterday?” asked the young lady, in a 
whisper. 

Yes,” replied Forbes, in the same tone, and, 
smiling with some embarrassment, he added : 
“You see, I have not exaggerated, he comes 
straight from the wilderness ; but in a few days 
he will have a more civilized appearance, and I 
will then take the liberty of introducing him to 
you.” 

“Your friend will always be welcome,” said 
the old gentleman. Forbes went back to his place 
opposite Baldwin, and, in that affectedly uncon- 
cerned manner which we generally assume when 
we are speaking of a person who, we know, is 
watching us, he told him that the young lady was 
Miss Jane Leland, the daughter of Mr. Leland, 
a rich banker of N’ew York. 

“Rich or poor,” said Baldwin, “she is ex- 
ceedingly pretty, and pleases me very much.” 

“ You shall make her acquaintance,” continued 
Forbes. “ I have already spoken of you, and will 
introduce you whenever you like.” Jane Leland 
knew very well that the two young men were 
talking of her ; but she was accustomed to attract 
the attention of those around her, and she man- 
aged to look perfectly cool and unconcerned. A 


22 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


few minutes later Baldwin and Forbes rose to 
leave the restaurant. Forbes stepped up once 
more to Mr. Leland’s table to say good-by, while 
Baldwin passed on with one of those awkward 
half-bows which we sometimes make to people 
whom we know without having been introduced 
to them. 


III. 

A FEW days after Baldwin had seen Miss Le- 
land for the first time, he was formally presented 
to the young lady and her parents, and in a very 
short time he became a frequent and welcome 
visitor at the house of the American family. In 
the beginning of March he had gone to London 
on business ; but at the end of a week, and much 
sooner than he was expected, he had returned ; 
and now he had been in Paris two months with- 
out even alluding to any intention of going away 
soon. 

Forbes was more than satisfied with this state 
of things ; he was quite delighted. His whole 
manner of life had .been most agreeably changed 
by the presence of that cheerful, unassuming guest 
in his house. Already he began to think with 
uneasiness of the time when this pleasant inter- 
course must come to an end. Baldwin had said 
once, before his journey to England, that toward 
the end of the year he would return to Hakodate. 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


23 


“ Why don’t you remain in Europe ? ” asked 
Forbes. 

‘‘Because my business is in Japan, and my 
money is invested there.” 

“Can’t you close out your business?” asked 
Forbes again ; “ you surely do not intend to spend 
your whole life among those half-civilized Japa- 
nese and those wild Ainos ? ” 

“ Certainly not ; but I must bear it a little 
longer, until I have earned enough to live in Eu- 
rope without the half of the income which my 
Japanese business gives me at present.” 

“And how long will that take ? ” 

“About four or five years, with good luck.” 

“ Five years, if you are lucky ; that is a long 
time. And, now, supposing you have no luck as 
you expect, what then ? ” 

“ I never have given that a thought ; I let the 
morrow take care of itself.” 

“ And when do you think of going back ? ” 

“ There is no hurry about that ; probably 
toward the end of the year. If I am in Hakodate 
by next spring, that will be time enough.” 

The month of May had come — Baldwin had 
not spoken again of going away ; nor did he seem 
to think about it. Indeed, so it was ; the thought 
of leaving Paris never came to him. The bright 
eyes of Jane Leland had cast a spell upon him. He 
was madly, hopelessly in love with her. He had 
been, in the fullest sense of the word, bewitched by 


24 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


the brown-eyed, golden-haired, graceful American 
girl. All his thoughts, wishes, and hopes, were 
centred in her. This unspoken passion made him 
as happy, as miserable, as light-hearted, as melan- 
choly, as generous, as cowardly, and as silly, as it 
does most people who are in that same enviable 
condition. In one respect only Baldwin differed 
from most lovers : he did not talk about his love. 
He had not made a confidant of Forbes, who 
nevertheless had long been aware of his friend’s 
state of mind. Jane, too, to say nothing of Mr. 
and Mrs. Leland, had without much difficulty 
guessed their new friend’s secret. Mrs. Leland, 
nee De Montemars, was by no means pleased at 
this discovery, but neither was she made uneasy 
by it. Her prudent Jane inspired her with the 
most perfect and well-justified confidence. Mr. 
Baldwin was not a son-in-law according to her 
coldly-calculating heart. She had long ago se- 
lected the wealthy George Forbes as a suitable 
husband for her daughter. 

Old Mr. Leland felt very kindly disposed 
toward the young Englishman, but he was not 
allowed to have any voice in the matter. His 
wife, indeed, had very quickly put a stop to his 
remarks when, one evening, he had timidly 
alluded to the amiable qualities of ‘Hhe young 
man from Japan.” Jane herself was not proud 
of her last conquest. She was accustomed to 
triumph. She did not dislike Baldwin, certainly. 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


25 


but the thought of marrying him had never once 
occurred to her. She was now twenty-three, and 
during the last four years she had been courted 
in the most various ways. She numbered in her 
collection sentimental, passionate, melancholy, 
witty, and sensible admirers. Each in turn had 
amused her for a while, and then had gradually 
become uninteresting, if not tiresome. Three of 
them had made her offers of marriage, which she 
had declined unconditionally, without one mo- 
ment’s hesitation. She was really not quite sure 
herself what qualities her future husband ought 
to possess to please her. A great name, a brilliant 
position, a large fortune, might have, if not con- 
quered her, at least made her hesitate. None of 
the three suitors had possessed those qualifications, 
nor had Baldwin either a distinguished name or 
great riches to command particular favor. The 
natural simplicity of his manner amused ” her, 
and that was all she could say in his favor. 

The only man of her acquaintance who occu- 
pied her thoughts was Forbes ; and he did not 
owe this distinction to his wealth. She certainly 
thought of it sometimes, and imagined how pleas- 
ant it would be to surpass all her friends and 
acquaintances in splendor and extravagance, but 
what attracted her most was the aristocratic in- 
difference of the young millionaire. 

Now and then one meets in America with 
descendants of German or English immigrants in 


26 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


whom every trace of their origin has been oblit- 
erated, after a few generations, by the influences 
of climate and a new mode of life. The typical 
features of their ancestors have completely disap- 
peared. They have thin, small, refined features ; 
a peculiar, delicate complexion ; large, intelligent, 
bright eyes ; small, well-shaped hands and feet ; 
and long, slender limbs. Their bearing is bold and 
noble, their movements graceful and self-assured. 
They look more like the heirs of old and noble 
names than the descendants of square-shouldered, 
thick-set farmers and workmen, driven by want 
and misery from their old homes ; and not seldom 
one does learn with surprise that they themselves 
have in their youth carried on some trade or busi- 
ness, which in Europe is only followed by the 
lower and poorer classes. 

Forbes was one of these, so to speak, unjustifi- 
ably aristocratic-looking men. His grandfather 
had been a poor farmer ; his father had dug his 
fortune out of the Californian mines ; yet the slen- 
derly-built George Forbes moved about with re- 
markable dignity and gentlemanlike self-confi- 
dence. His great wealth threw a sort of artificial 
halo around him ; he rode and drove the hand- 
somest horses ; he lost and won large sums at play 
with most perfect equanimity ; he never asked a 
service of anybody nor even the smallest favor ; 
he was no respecter of persons or of things ; he 
was polite and at the same time regardless of 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


27 


others ; lastly, he knew how to dress plainly, but 
in perfect good taste. Jane saw all this, and ad- 
mired it. In her heart she even over-estimated 
the value of the manifold advantages of her rich 
countryman, and at the same time she was con- 
scious that her beautiful eyes exercised no great 
power over him, and that his serenity was not dis- 
turbed for one moment in her presence. She felt 
this more bitterly than any one had an idea of, far 
more than she liked to own to herself. 

If he were only not so rich,” she often thought, 
‘‘ I could show him at least that he pleases me more 
than the silly, tiresome men that surround me ; 
but I scarcely dare to be friendly with him lest he 
should fancy that I am thinking of his money, like 
those girls that flirt with him and those men that 
flatter him. If he could only lose a good part of 
his fortune, then he would find out who are his 
true friends.” 

She treated Forbes with far greater reserve 
than her other acquaintances ; and for Baldwin, 
especially, she had always a pleasant smile and a 
friendly greeting. Forbes noticed this and laughed 
at it inwardly. She wants to make me jealous of 
poor Baldwin,” he said to himself. The son of the 
gold-digger did not cherish many illusions ; he had 
no very exalted opinion of mankind in general, nor 
of Jane Leland in particular. He was not so easy 
to decoy and tame as the wild man of Yesso. On 
one occasion, when Forbes came home from his 


28 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


club at one o’clock in the morning, having left 
Baldwin two hours before in Mrs. Leland’s draw- 
ing-room, he noticed that there was still a light in 
his friend’s room. He opened the door and found 
Baldwin walking up and down, apparently in deep 
thought. 

“ Why, what keeps you up so late ? ” 

Sit down,” said Baldwin ; “ I want to speak 
to you.” 

My advice is, don’t.” 

‘‘What?” 

“ Don’t marry.” 

Baldwin looked up in surprise. “Who told 
you that I wished to marry ? ” he asked. 

“ Why, you yourself,” replied Forbes, laugh- 
ing. “ Do you really think that it is a secret, for 
any one who knows you, that you are in love with 
Miss Leland ? ” 

Baldwin remained silent for some time ; at last 
he said : “You spare me the trouble of a preface 
and a confession. I am thankful for that. I may 
at once tell you what has taken place to-night. 
Soon after you left us, I unexpectedly found an 
opportunity of speaking alone to Miss Leland. 
Mr. Leland was at the whist-table, his wife was 
talking to some ladies, and Jane had remained 
alone in the little room where tea had been served. 
There I joined her. I do not know how it hap- 
pened that I came to speak of my love, but, before 
I knew it myself, I had told her all I have carried 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


29 


so long in my heart. At the very moment when 
I was expecting her answer, I heard the chairs 
move in the drawing-room ; the visitors were pre- 
paring to go. Jane rose quickly, and went into 
the next room. The guests took leave, and a few 
minutes later I found myself alone with Mr. and 
Mrs. Leland. Jane had disappeared. My heart 
was so full of what I had said to her, that I was 
determined to come to an understanding. I re- 
peated in a few words what had taken place be- 
tween Miss Leland and myself, and I begged them 
to grant me the hand of their daughter. Old Mr. 
Leland looked embarrassed, and said, ‘ You must 
settle that with my wife.’ He then went to the 
whist-table, and busied himself in packing up the 
counters and cards. Mrs. Leland, who had re- 
mained by the fireplace, and did not ask me to sit 
down, made a long speech in an undertone, to this 
effect : she had heard from myself, as well as from 
you, that I intended to return to Japan, and she 
could not give her consent to a marriage which 
would separate her from her only child. I knew 
not what to answer. The whole affair assumed 
suddenly such a totally prosaic aspect that I be- 
came embarrassed, and I do not remember what I 
said in reply. While I was speaking to her, she 
looked at me in a cold, unsympathetic way. Old 
Leland was still busy putting away his cards, but 
I could not and would not consider myself beaten. 
Jane had not accepted my offer, but neither had 


30 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


she refused it. I might still hope for the best. 
So at last I said to Mrs. Leland that I could not 
accept her answer as final ; that I entreated her 
to speak to her daughter, and that I would take 
the liberty of calling to-morrow ^afternoon for an 
answer. I cannot tell how painful the hard, busi- 
ness-like tone in which this conversation was car- 
ried on appeared to me. Mrs. Leland said : ‘ I 
will speak to my daughter. Your visits will al- 
ways be welcome, but I will never consent to 
separate from my only child in order to let her go 
to a part of the world where she would be as good 
as lost to me.’ There followed a long pause, dur- 
ing which her eyes remained fixed on me with 
that same unfriendly expression. I could not 
fully realize my position. I felt as if I were in a 
dream. Everything seemed so strange, so entire- 
ly unexpected. I had gone to the Lelands that 
evening, as I had done for weeks past, in the hope 
of seeing Jane, but without any positive intention 
of declaring my love ; and now I had spoken, and 
had not even received Jane’s answer — now I was 
called upon, in this formal, business-like man- 
ner, as if it were a mere every-day question, to 
resign all the happiness I had hoped for ! I felt 
that I could not collect my thoughts. I had just 
enough self-possession and judgment left to see 
that one inconsiderate word might hopelessly ruin 
my chances. I took my hat, and said, once more, 
‘ Speak to your daughter, and allow me to call for 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


31 


your decision to-morrow.’ A few seconds later I 
found myself in the street, and for the last hour 
I have been here^ You see I am cool, but still I 
don’t know what to do. Help me, Forbes ! What 
ought I to do ? If Mrs. Leland repeats to-morrow 
what she said to-day, what then ? Help me ! ” 
Baldwin spoke quietly, but his eyes shone with 
a feverish light, his look was unsteady, and his 
voice sounded hoarse. 

Forbes walked leisurely up to the fireplace, 
looked at the clock, admired himself in the look- 
ing-glass, and smoothed his beautiful, curly hair. 
Baldwin never took his eyes off him.* 

‘‘Do you think,” said Forbes, at last, very 
quietly, “ that you have Miss Leland on your side ? ” 
“ How can I know ? ” replied Baldwin, impa- 
tiently ; “ have I not told you that she left me 
without giving me any answer ? ” 

“Well, my dear friend, then I really don’t 
know what to advise.” He relighted his cigar, 
which had gone out, and then continued, slowly : 
“Wait till to-morrow; let us see what Mamma 
Leland has to say to you.” 

“ But if she simply repeats what she said this 
evening ? ” 

“Well, if I were you I would wait anyhow.” 

“ Have you nothing else to say to me ? ” 

“ I really have not.” 

“ Then I am no wiser than I was.” 

Forbes made no reply. Baldwin, who was 


32 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


seated, remained staring into vacancy while he 
whistled softly to himself. At last he said, 
‘‘Very well, I will wait till to-morrow.” Then 
he passed his hand across his forehead and eyes, 
and said, “ I am tired to death.” 

Forbes wished him good-night, and left the 
room. A quarter of an hour afterward he was 
lying in bed, reading the evening papers, as was 
his habit before going to sleep. After a very lit- 
tle while he dropped the paper on the floor, extin- 
guished the light, and was soon sound asleep. 

The next morning, Baldwin, who had passed a 
sleepless night, was sitting in his room, pale and 
down-hearted, when the following letter from Mr. 
Leland was brought to him. : 

“ Avenue Friedland, Monday Morning, 

“My dear Mr. Baldwin : After you left us 
last night I had a long conversation with my wife 
and my daughter, and it is my duty to inform you 
of the decision we have come to. I regret sincere- 
ly that I cannot give you better news. Jane is our 
only child, and you will readily understand that 
we do not wish to separate from her. She is very 
grateful for the offer which you have made her ; 
she feels flattered by it ; but she will not oppose 
the expressed wish of her parents. Under these 
circumstances, it would be painful for yourself, as 
well as for us, were you to repeat your offer to- 
day, as was your intention last night. Our deci- 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


33 


sion is irrevocable. I wish you well in every way 
with all my heart. I hope that in after-years 
we may meet again, and renew under different 
circumstances an acquaintance which has been 
very agreeable to me. My wife sends her best 
regards, and I remain, my dear Mr. Baldwin, 
“Yours, very truly, 

“Fredeeick Leland.” 

Baldwin, after reading the letter, sat for a 
long time motionless, and seemingly petrified. At 
twelve o’clock the servant came to announce 
breakfast, and to tell him that Mr. Forbes was 
waiting for him in the dining-room. Baldwin 
replied that he would come directly ; but he for- 
got what he had said, and a quarter of an hour 
later Forbes himself came to find out what kept 
him in his room. Baldwin, without saying a 
word, handed him the letter, at which Forbes 
merely glanced. 

“We will talk about this after breakfast,” he 
said. “ Come down ; it is half -past twelve.” 

Baldwin followed his host, as if in a dream, 
and for half an hour he sat opposite to him at the 
table without speaking a word. Forbes had taken 
a long ride in the morning, and had an excellent 
appetite. After having satisfied his hunger, how- 
ever, he was ready to listen to the love-affairs of 
his best friend. 

“ Give me that letter again,” he said, when he 
3 


34 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


was seated with Baldwin in the smoking-room ; 

I want to read it over carefully before I give 
you my opinion.” 

He lighted a cigar very leisurely, threw him- 
self into an easy-chair, put his legs up on another 
chair, and after making himself thoroughly com- 
fortable, and having first examined for a moment 
with evident pleasure his small, well-made boots, 
he began to read. 

“ That letter has been dictated by Mamma Le- 
land,” he said, when he had arrived at the signa- 
ture. ‘‘The old gentleman would never have 
written it. I knoAV his style. And she has taken 
pains to make it look awkward and natural. Her 
own little billets have a much finer finish. But 
the letter is not bad of its kind. The ^nee He 
Montemars ’ has anticipated any new attack which 
you might attempt, and has defeated it before- 
hand.” 

“ Forbes, will you do me a favor ? ” 

“ With pleasure.” 

“ Go to Mrs. Leland ; speak a kind word for 
me.” 

“ But, my dear fellow, what could I say ? Fa- 
ther, mother, and daughter, unanimously reject 
your oifer. Follow my advice, and let the matter 
drop.” 

Baldwin looked at him in astonishment, but did 
not answer. Forbes felt that, in his desire to get 
rid of the whole affair, which did not interest him 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


35 


very much, he had perhaps acted somewhat awk- 
wardly ; so with some hesitation in tone and man- 
ner, like one who is trying to get out of a diffi- 
culty and hopes to find the way while he is speak- 
ing, he said : Put yourself in that woman’s 
place. After all, she is not so very much in the 
wrong. . . . She does not wish to separate from 
her. ... If you had an only daughter, would you 
like her to go and live among the Ainos ? . . . 
Cannot you make a new offer on a different basis ? 
. . . Cannot you say you would remain in Eu- 
rope? . . . By that means perhaps everything 
might be pleasantly arranged. But go and plead 
your own cause. Don’t take an outsider into your 
business. That might make an unfavorable im- 
pression. Qui vent, va — qui ne veut pas, en- 
voie ! ” 

‘^No, I must return to Japan,” replied Bald- 
win ; my interests would suffer too much, were 
I to remain here now.” 

“Well, then, make a sacrifice.” 

“ If it were only that,” exclaimed Baldwin, “ I 
would willingly give every penny I have, if it would 
make Mrs. Leland change her mind. But as a 
poor man I could not presume to offer myself as a 
husband for Jane — ” 

He stopped suddenly, and walked up and 
down the room in deep thought. Then, speak- 
ing to himself rather than to his companion, he 
said : 


36 


GOKDON BALDWIN. 


There is perhaps one way of arranging every- 
thing.” 

How ? ” 

“ If I could find somebody to buy a share of 
my business — ^which is really a sound and good 
one — ” 

He stopped again, casting a timid glance at 
Forbes. 

How could that be done ? ” 

I do not see my way quite clearly in the mat- 
ter,” replied Baldwin ; I will think it over and 
talk to you about it this evening.” 

Yes, do,” replied Forbes, in a careless tone. 
Then he looked at his watch and said : I have a 
few calls to make. I shall dine at seven o’clock 
at the Cafe Anglais ; you can meet me there if 
you like. At any rate, I shall be home at about 
nine,” and he left the room. 

“I see what you are after. Master Gordon 
Baldwin,” he said to himself, as soon as he was 
outside; ‘^always the same old story.” 

Baldwin had no idea of what was passing in 
Forbes’s mind. He worked the whole afternoon 
to draw up a statement of his financial position. 
He had some documents with him which enabled 
him to prove the correctness of his estimate by 
figures and facts. He could show that he pos- 
sessed a fortune of nearly $150,000. In order to 
arrive at this figure, he, however, thought himself 
justified in putting down his flourishing business 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


37 


in Japan at a fair sum. He stated that any one 
who would take a share in the concern bringing 
$50,000 with him would make a safe and profita- 
ble investment ; and under these conditions, he 
declared himself ready to accept his friend Gra- 
ham, of Hakodate, into partnership. He was sure 
beforehand of Graham’s consent. The $50,000 
with which Graham would join the firm would 
enable them to extend the business and found a 
branch establishment in Europe. The manage- 
ment of this European branch, Baldwin would un- 
dertake himself. These were the heads of the 
memorandum. In an accompanying letter, Bald- 
win asked Forbes to lend this $50,000 to his 
friend Graham. As a further guarantee, he de- 
clared himself ready to mortgage his own and 
Graham’s landed property in Hakodate for Forbes’s 
security. Thus, the risk, to be incurred in grant- 
ing the loan, would be reduced to a minimum. 
Baldwin worked hard for several hours to finish 
the statement and the letter. He had been much 
excited ; but as he read over his work when it was 
done, it satisfied him, and that calmed him a little. 
He had written with perfect honesty. He had not 
tried to represent his circumstances as better than 
they were. A stranger, indeed, might perhaps 
raise objections. But then Forbes was no stran- 
ger. Baldwin knew that Forbes possessed a 
large fortune, and took it for granted that he would 
be ready to render this service to him and to Gra- 


38 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


ham, who was a friend of his youth. He looked 
at his watch and found that it was too late to go 
to the Cafe Anglais ; so he took a hasty dinner 
at a restaurant in the Champs-Elysees, and re- 
turned home directly. 

Forbes was not punctual. It was nearly ten 
o’clock when he made his appearance. He said 
something by way of excuse, to which his friend 
paid no attention. He was evidently in a bad 
humor when he followed Baldwin into his room. 

“ Here ! ” said Bald win, handing him the long, 
carefully-written statement; ‘‘read this first.” 

Forbes did not take his hat off, and altogether 
looked like a man who has not much time to 
spare. He turned quickly over the closely-written 
pages, and soon came to the end of the memoran- 
dum, which had cost poor Baldwin hours of hon- 
est labor. 

“I don’t see yet, in the drift of this,” he 
said, without lifting his eyes off the manuscript, 
“ but I can point out at once one great mistake, 
which may fatally weaken the whole statement. 
I, too, am a man of business,” he said, some- 
what pettishly, as if answering some implied 
remark of Baldwin’s, who had not said a word, 
and was only looking at him in anxious sus- 
pense. “You estimate your property at $150,000. 
That cannot be correct to begin with, since you 
are willing to sell one-half for $50,000, that is to 
say, with a loss of $25,000. According to your 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


39 


own calculations, therefore, you are worth only 
$125,000. But even from that sum, Leland, who 
is a cautious man, would deduct one-half, as your 
money is invested in a business which may be 
good to-day and bad to-morrow. Again, you are 
ready, you say, to become joint security with 
Graham for the $50,000 you wish to raise. But 
should you be unfortunate in your business — a 
contingency which certainly must be taken into 
account — you might be entirely ruined. This 
alone will induce old Leland to consider your 
statement as resting upon a very weak founda- 
tion, and consequently to reject it.” 

He had assumed, while speaking, a certain 
look of superiority, as though he had discovered 
something very pleasant, and he repeated slowly, 
“ Yes, reject it ! ” Then, after a short pause, he 
continued : 

“ But even supposing that Leland accepts all 
your calculations — which I know he will not — 
your statement will by no means satisfy him. I 
see you reckon upon a certain income of $12,000. 
You mention this sum as a minimum. 'Now Le- 
land will not suppose for a moment that you have 
undervalued your property, and he will set down 
that sum as a maximum. But, my dear fellow, 
what are $12,000 a year for a spoiled girl like Jane 
Leland ? In her father’s house more than double 
that sum is spent, and they don’t consider them- 
selves rich enough. With $12,000, or about 


40 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


£2,500, a year, you can’t do much in Paris. For 
instance, you could not think of keeping your own 
horses and carriage. And imagine Jane Leland 
in a cab ! Impossible. Believe me, my dear 
Baldwin, it won’t do ; better give it up.” 

“Here, read this,” replied Baldwin, gloomily. 
He handed Forbes the letter in which he was 
asked to advance the $50,000 to Graham. 

Forbes looked at it for a moment. 

“You think me richer than I am,” he said. 
“I cannot raise $50,000 so easily as you fancy. 
But even if I could, what would be the use? 
I tell you again, Leland is far too practical 
a man to accept your offer. Believe me, Bald- 
win, the best thing you can do is to give up the 
whole affair.” 

“ Then you will not help me ? ” 

“ I will help you with pleasure, if it is possi- 
ble. I will see what I can do. But I can make 
no positive promise ; and I repeat again, I do not 
believe that my help would do you any good.” 

“ What am I to do then ? ” 

“ Well, how can I know ? ” 

“ May I tell Leland that I think I can make 
arrangements to remain in Europe, if, on that 
condition, he will give me his daughter ? ” 

“ Certainly, tell him that. That can do no 
harm. But — ^but, as I said before, I do not know 
yet whether I can get that money for you. I 
would have to borrow it. $50,000 is a large sum 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


41 


— a quarter of a million of francs — a very large 
sum. If you only knew how many claims are 
made on me — from all sides — ” 

Baldwin looked at Forbes with an expression 
so peculiar, so bitter, and at the same time so 
pitying, that the poor millionaire was suddenly 
silenced. 

“ Let us say no more about it,” said Baldwin, 
gently. “ I have been mistaken ! ” 

A feeling of shame and anger took possession 
of Forbes. He felt that at this moment Baldwin 
looked down upon him from a great height. But 
had he a right to do so ? What did it all amount 
to ? Always the same old story ! He, Forbes, 
was to give money. Was he good for nothing 
else in this world than to pay — to help other 
people, strangers, out of their difficulties ? Who 
ever had helped him ? Nobody ! He wanted 
nothing of Baldwin ; what right had Baldwin to 
ask a favor of him ? He had taken a liking to 
the stranger, because he seemed unselfish. ' But, 
after all, Baldwin was just like the other people 
with whom he had come in contact. Baldwin, 
like the rest, wanted to get something out of him. 
“ I will not always let everybody make use of me, 
and get the better of me,” he said to himself. 
“ The friendship of that man is not worth $50,000 ; 
not a penny would I give for it if I had to pay 
for it. It was only of value as long as it was not 
venal.” 


42 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


You judge me unfairly,” he said aloud ; ^^but 
it would be of no use to try and clear up this 
misunderstanding. Good-night, Baldwin.” 

“ Good-night.” 

A few minutes later Baldwin heard the roll 
of the carriage which took Forbes to his club. 

He played there as usual, but if possible with 
even less interest than was his wont. His reason 
furnished him with a hundred arguments to jus- 
tify his conduct toward Baldwin, but his heart, 
cold as it was, told him he had acted meanly and 
ungenerously. No ! Baldwin was no common 
schemer who wanted to take advantage of him ! 
And by his side there stood another man, whose 
image Forbes could not drive away : a man with 
a prematurely aged face, with a sad look, and a 
sorrowful smile on his lips — Thomas. Baldwin, 
a perfect stranger, had shown kindness to him — 
I owe it to Baldwin that I have not gone quite 
to ruin,” Thomas had written to Forbes. This 
thought gnawed at the heart of the millionaire, 
and his conscience smote him. 

He shall have the money,” he said to him- 
self, suddenly. A genial feeling of warmth, which 
he had not known for years, filled his breast. 

hanquCy^ he said, aloud, and pushed a 
heap of gold and bank-notes into the middle of 
the table. He lost. The counting of the money 
took a long time. He waited impatiently, and 
had to pay a considerable sum ; then he rose and 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


43 


drove home. He looked up at Baldwin’s windows, 
and saw no light in them. 

‘^He is gone to bed,” thought Forbes. He 
went into his own room ; he was excited, and it 
was long before he fell asleep. At a late hour 
the next morning his servant came into his room 
and brought him a letter. Forbes recognized 
Baldwin’s handwriting; he tore open the envelope 
and read : 

“ Dear Forbes : Accept my best thanks for 
the kindness with which you have received me. 
I have decided to go to London. Your servant 
tells me that you are still asleep, and I do not 
wish to disturb you. Very faithfully yours, 

“Gordon Baldwin.” 


IV. 

Four years had gone by quiukly. Baldwin 
was thirty-two and Forbes was not far from forty. 
Mrs. Leland had died; she had not seen the fulfill- 
ment of the great desire of her heart, the union 
of her daughter Jane with George Forbes. 

Jane was still young and beautiful, but she 
was discontented and bitter at heart. This was 
shown in the thin, straight lips of her firmly-set 
mouth, in the sharp look of her brown eyes, and 
in the almost stern expression of her countenance. 


44 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


Life with her had not kept its fair promise. The 
years of her first fresh youth had gone by. Her 
friends and companions, many of them less beau- 
tiful and less wealthy than herself, had married, 
and now held a position in society from which 
they seemed to look down upon her, whose su- 
periority they had formerly acknowledged with- 
out difficulty. There had been numerous suitors 
for. her hand during all these years — she had re- 
fused them all. 

She knew why she had done so. 

The only man who could make her heart beat 
faster, and whose homage would have fiattered her 
— George Forbes — seemed not to care for her. 

Quite imperceptibly the circle of her admirers 
had dwindled. She felt lonely since the death of 
her mother. She still was to be seen in the Amer- 
ican colony of Paris, where her great beauty and 
wealth gave her a prominent position, but she 
seemed isolated there. 

The young, unmarried girls were afraid of her 
sharp tongue, and the young men became embar- 
rassed when they were subjected to the cold look 
of Jane Leland. 

Sometimes George Forbes would sit down by 
her side. Then her eyes would brighten with a 
tender, reproachful expression, which remained 
unnoticed by the millionaire. He sat there per- 
fectly cool and indifferent. And while Jane was 
looking at him to impress the image of the loved 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


45 


face deeper and deeper into her heart, he would 
criticise with impertinent coolness the toilets of 
the guests, or make some sneering remark about 
the young people. He treated Jane like a con- 
temporary, an old friend of many years’ standing. 
Toward midnight, when every one was bright and 
cheerful, when the youthful faces were flushed 
with pleasure and excitement, he would rise with 
a hardly-suppressed yawn, to go to his club, to 
gamble there for an hour or two. He had changed 
but little during the last four years. There was 
still the same slight figure, and the , elegant, hand- 
some face, which was so familiar to the habitues 
of the boulevards, of the Bois de Boulogne, and 
of the premieres representations. 

Forbes had felt the loss of Baldwin very much 
for some time, and had even gone to London in 
the hopes of finding him ; had also written to 
him, but had received no answer. Then he had 
forgotten him. He had to think of many other 
things — of himself, in the first place. From time 
to time, at intervals which grew more and more 
distant, the remembrance of the “ wild man ” rose 
up in his heart. And then he felt ashamed and 
humiliated, and he would impatiently press his 
hand across his brow, as if to drive away a pain- 
ful vision. Sometimes he would try to justify 
himself in his own eyes, and stifle the feeling of 
mortification. “Well, I have saved $50,000, at 
any rate,” he would say to himself, but he knew 


46 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


well enough that he did not believe it. He knew 
that the money that Baldwin had asked him to 
lend him would not have been lost, and that he 
had missed a rare opportunity in his monoto- 
nous, useless life to do a good deed to a good 
man. He had heard nothing more of Thomas 
Graham. “ He may he dead, for aught I know,” 
he said to himself. A gloomy feeling came over 
him at the thought that the last request which 
Thomas had made had not been granted, and that 
the kindness shown to him by Baldwin had not 
been repaid. 

Baldwin had spent these four years in Japan. 
Fortune had smiled upon him, and he had become 
a rich man. Graham, his true and faithful friend, 
had been his partner for the last three years. 
Baldwin had asked him to go for a year to Eu- 
rope, and give himself a good, long holiday ; but 
the quiet, melancholy man had refused this very 
gently, but with great determination. 

^^Here, in Hakodate, I have at last found 
peace,” he had said, and here I will stay. I 
want nothing, I desire nothing more than what I 
have. Go to Europe yourself. I wish you from 
my heart all the happiness you can find at home ; 
I hope all your wishes may be realized. As for me, 
I expect nothing more from the world out there, 
and I shall stay here.” 

Baldwin had told Graham what had taken 
place in Paris. He had also mentioned, but with- 


GORDON BALDWIN. 47 

out any bitterness, the mean behaviour of Forbes. 
Graham had turned pale when he had heard it. 

“ George is cold-hearted and suspicious,” he had 
said, “ but I do not think him bad ; I am sorry 
that his distrust has misled him ; I would have 
forgiven him everything — all that I sometimes 
think I have to reproach him with — if he had 
done you a great service.” 

Baldwin had noticed that any allusion to 
Forbes was painful to his friend. The recollec- 
tions of Paris were sad for him also. The two 
friends, by tacit agreement, never spoke again of 
the unfortunate journey to Europe. 

In time the remembrance of Jane grew fainter 
in Baldwin’s heart. His love for her became 
quieter, colder, and so disappeared gradually. His 
anger against Forbes cooled down in like manner. 
The small-minded man, whom he had at first 
heartily despised, became an object of indiffer- 
ence. He thought of him but seldom, and with- 
out bitterness. Time destroys everything. In 
the last days of the year 186- Baldwin had said 
once more good-by to Graham, to make a new 
trip to Europe. Nothing had been definitely set- 
tled about his return to Japan. 

“ Remain at home as long as it pleases you,” 
Graham had said ; “ I am happy at the thought 
that you will enjoy yourself there. You are too 
young to bury yourself out here, as I have done. 
If you care to remain in England or in France, let 


48 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


no thouglit of me prevent you. I am content to 
stay some years longer in Japan. If at any time 
I should wish to get away from here, which is not 
at all likely, I shall know it in time to ask you to 
take my place for a while, or I will he able to put 
our business in such shape that it can be carried 
on without either your presence or mine. Do not 
trouble yourself about me, I shall get on very 
well alone. Enjoy yourself, and good-by ! ” 

And now Baldwin was once more in Europe ; 
a quiet, serious man, older in heart and in looks 
than in years, but full of confidence, and inspiring 
it in others as before. 

He had arrived at Marseilles a few days be- 
fore, in a steamer of the Messageries Imperiales^ 
and had been in Paris a few hours. He had gone 
to a hotel in the Rue de la Paix, where he in- 
tended to stay a week before his departure for 
London. It was the month of March. 

As soon as he had landed on French soil, Bald- 
win had felt a wish to see Paris again. He could 
not have explained what drew him there. He did 
not hope to see Jane again ; he did not even wish 
it. He had never inquired after her ; he thought 
she must be married long ago. For him she was 
lost — dead. But he wished to see again the place 
where his young, warm heart had dreamed a brief, 
beautiful dream ; he thought longingly of the 
place as of a spot where a beloved friend lies 
buried. A sorrowful memory of his younger days 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


49 


drew him toward Paris. He slowly changed his 
dress and went to the cafk where he had dined 
years ago, on the day of his first arrival. The 
boulevards appeared to him strangely familiar. 
It was like the meeting of old friends. He recog- 
nized in the windows of the shops the same pho- 
tographs which he had noticed four years before. 
It seemed to him that he had only been absent a 
few days. Everything was in the old place ; 
nothing seemed changed — only himself ; he had 
grown so different, so much older, so much poorer 
in hope, so much sadder. 

He sat down at the same table where, years 
ago, he used to sit with Forbes, and lo ! the same 
waiter, with apparently the same white apron, the 
same white necktie, the same patent-leather shoes, 
came to him and asked, in the well-known, indif- 
ferent tone, what monsieur would like to have for 
dinner. 

Give me a good dinner,” replied Baldwin. 

The waiter stared slightly, and looked more 
closely at the sunburnt stranger with the white 
forehead. Something like a faint recollection 
passed over his sleek, pallid face, and glistened in 
his dark, cunning eyes. He went to order the 
dinner ; then he returned and remained standing 
near Baldwin. Suddenly he went up close to 
him, and, leaning over the table with polite famil- 
iarity, he asked : Hoes monsieur expect M. 
Forbes ? ” 


4 


50 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


Baldwin looked up with a smile and said : 
“You have a good memory.” 

“I never forget my customers,” replied the 
man, evidently flattered. 

He went again to the kitchen, and when he 
returned to Baldwin he said : “ I have changed 
the hill-of-fare a little. I remember monsieur 
likes highly-seasoned dishes. I have ordered a 
curried chicken.” 

A few moments later, Forbes entered the room. 
The waiter went up to him and said : “ Monsieur 
is expected.” Forbes looked toward the table 
which the waiter had pointed out, and a sudden, 
deep flush covered his face. He hesitated for a 
second, and then walked up to Baldwin. Baldwin 
rose from his seat, and for one short moment the 
two men faced each other in great embarrassment. 
Baldwin was the first to hold out his hand, which 
Forbes seized eagerly and pressed with great 
warmth. 

“ I am truly delighted to see you again,” he 
said. “I had no idea that you were in Paris. 
When did you arrive ? ” 

“ A few hours ago.” 

“ And where have you put up ? ” Baldwin 
gave him the name of his hotel. 

The waiter had taken Forbes’s hat and over- 
coat, and was awaiting further orders. 

“ Give me the same dinner as Mr. Baldwin,” 
Forbes said, to get rid of the man. Then he sat 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


51 


down, arranged his cover, and unfolded his napkin, 
to fill up a short pause. At last he bent forward, 
and, with greater warmth than was usual with him, 
said : 

“ There has been a misunderstanding between 
us, Baldwin. I am very sorry for it. I tried to 
find you after you had left me so suddenly, but 
did not succeed. I also wrote to you to the care 
of your banker in London ; but I received no an- 
swer.” 

‘‘Let by-gones be by-gones,” said Baldwin. 
“ All that is forgotten long ago.” 

“ ]^o, I must beg to be allowed to give an ex- 
planation. I give you my word that, on that same 
evening when I saw you, I had made up my mind 
to place the sum which you wanted at your dis- 
posal.” 

“ You came a little late with your friendly in- 
tention.” 

“ Yes, indeed, and I have often regretted it. I 
regret it to this day. Believe me, I would like to 
have been of service to you.” 

“ I believe you.” It was the same quiet, deep 
voice, which Forbes had liked to listen to years 
ago, and which had inspired him with confidence 
and affection ; but the faithful, honest eyes which 
were now looking at him, and whose steady light 
he could not endure, were no longer bright and 
full of light as formerly ; they had a serious, al- 
most sad, expression now. A feeling of shame 


52 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


and repentance, which he had never experienced 
before, filled the heart of the rich man. He would 
have liked to beg Baldwin’s forgiveness ; he would 
willingly have given a much larger sum than that 
which he had refused to lend four years ago, if he 
could thereby have effaced his mistake. 

“I regretted your sudden departure very 
much,” he repeated. 

‘‘ I believe you. Let the matter rest. Tell me 
what you are doing.” 

Forbes told him that the last four years had 
gone by in a dull, monotonous way, devoid of any 
interesting incident. Suddenly he interrupted the 
history of his own life to inquire after Graham. 

“He has become my partner,” replied Bald- 
win. “ He is quite well. He is a good, honest 
man, and I have a great affection for him. I am 
only sorry that nothing seems to give him pleas- 
ure. He is always the same quiet, friendly, kind- 
hearted, and sad old fellow.” 

“ When you write to him,” said Forbes, after 
a pause, “ tell him that I inquired after him, and 
that I am glad to hear good news of him.” 

“Why don’t you write to him yourself? I 
am sure that a letter from you would give him 
pleasure.” 

Forbes did not answer ; and changing the con- 
versation, he asked abruptly : “ What did you say 
when you heard of Mrs. Leland’s death ? ” 

“ I did not know that she was dead,” replied 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


53 


Baldwin, with surprise. “And how is Mr. Le- 
land,” he continued, with some embarrassment, 
“ and Miss Leland ? ” 

The old pain awoke in him with the recollec- 
tion of the old time. But it was pain without 
bitterness. Jane, in his mind, belonged to a far- 
distant time, which, with its beautiful hopes, had 
gone by long ago. 

“Mr. Leland is just the same,” said Forbes. 
“ Indeed, I think that his wife’s death has made 
him younger. He is once more his own master, 
which had not been the case for the last thirty 
years. The death of that uncomfortable woman 
was no great loss for anybody. — As for Miss Le- 
land, you will find her but little changed. Well, 
she is no longer a child — she must be twenty- 
seven years old, and the first bloom of youth is 
certainly gone. Girls grow old faster than mar- 
ried women. But Miss Leland is still remarkably 
handsome — the handsomest girl of the whole 
American colony, which can boast of many a 
loved face. It is strange that she is not married. 
There has been no lack of suitors, but she has re- 
fused them all.” 

Baldwin was struck dumb. A thousand 
thoughts rushed through his brain. Jane was 
still free. How was that? He had never re- 
ceived a refusal from herself. Her parents alone 
had spoken. Could it be possible that she loved 
him? Was it too late to ask her for a definite 


54 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


answer? Should he try once more to seek his 
happiness where years ago he had hoped to find 
it? . . . And if she loved him? His heart beat 
faster at the very thought. . . . And if she did 
not love him? Well, that would be no new loss. 
The wound he had received four years ago was 
healed. He was able to think with equanimity of 
meeting Jane. He hoped, indeed, little ; but he 
had nothing to fear. His feeling toward her could 
hardly be called love ; it was rather a peculiar, 
intense curiosity. How would she behave when 
she saw him again? Would she be astonished, 
or joyfully moved, or indifferent ? He wanted to 
be sure about it. 

Forbes may perhaps have guessed what was 
going on in Baldwin’s mind, for he asked : Are 
you going to call on the Lelands ? ” 

‘‘ I don’t know yet,” replied Baldwin, but I 
think I would like to see them again.” 

“ You may have that pleasure this very evening. 
Come with me to the opera ; you will find Mr. and 
Miss Leland in my box.” 

Baldwin hesitated. “ Shall I call for you ? ” 
urged Forbes, who was anxious to make himself 
agreeable to his former friend. I can be in half 
an hour at your hotel — just in time for the 
opera : it is now nearly eight o’clock.” 

Baldwin consented, and they left the restau- 
rant. When they entered Forbes’s box, an hour 
later, it was empty ; but after a few moments Mr. 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


55 


Leland and Jane made their appearance. Jane 
recognized Baldwin at once, and started back with 
a little exclamation of surprise. But in a moment, 
and without any apparent effort, she recovered her 
self-possession. She had never cared for Baldwin. 
For years she had not thought of him. He was 
an acquaintance of former days, an old lover, whom 
she had rejected — nothing more. He had gone 
down in the stream of time, and had been forgot- 
ten without being even regretted. What was it 
to her that he had turned up again ? She gave 
him calmly her small, gloved hand, nodded to him 
with a friendly smile, and passed on to take her 
seat in the front of the box. 

Baldwin had to be introduced again to old Mr. 
Leland, but no sooner had he recollected the 
young man from Japan” than he showed the 
most genuine pleasure in seeing him again. He 
inquired after his health and his circumstances, 
and testified his satisfaction at the prosperity of 
an old friend by exclaiming half a dozen times. 
Delighted, delighted ! ” He insisted on making 
Baldwin sit in front next to his daughter, while 
he remained standing at the back of the box with 
Forbes, who had to tell him everything he knew 
about his newly -found friend. As to Baldwin, 
he was almost choked with emotion. He had well- 
nigh forgotten Jane during the last few years ; 
but now the blissful confusion which he had al- 
ways felt in her presence took hold of him again. 


56 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


Jane appeared to him more beautiful than ever. 
She was dressed plainly, like a young girl, but 
in Baldwin’s eyes she shone in her simple toi- 
let like a queen. She looked carelessly round the 
house, to see if she recognized any acquaintances, 
and Baldwin could admire her without meet- 
ing her eyes. The outline of her features had be- 
come more sharply defined than before, and this 
gave still greater refinement to her beauty ; her 
complexion was paler ; and it seemed to Baldwin 
that her countenance wore an expression of gentle 
sadness, instead of the former proud consciousness 
of victory. For one short moment her eyes met 
his ; he felt that he grew pale. Those eyes had 
lost the triumphant look of pride which once had 
beamed from them. They looked almost as if ap- 
pealing for help. Jane was more beautiful than 
ever. 

The curtain fell and put an end to Baldwin’s 
mute, admiring contemplation. And now she 
turned to him and asked kindly how he had been, 
when he had left Japan, and whether he intended 
to remain in Europe. 

Baldwin completely forgot that an hour before 
he had only been curious to see what impression 
their meeting would produce on Jane. She had 
been neither surprised, nor joyfully moved, nor in- 
different. His inexperienced, large heart yearned 
toward her with all its might. A delightful pain, 
made up of mingled hope and sorrow, filled his 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


57 


breast. It was with great difficulty he could re- 
tain his self-command. And Jane saw it all, 
as, with an enchanting smile and a kind, trustful 
expression, she looked up at him. 

Baldwin went back with Forbes to his hotel 
after the theatre, silent and abstracted. 

“ You do not seem to hear what I am saying to 
you,” remarked Forbes, with a smile. 

“I beg your pardon,” replied Baldwin, I am a 
little tired from my journey. You asked me where 
we should dine to-morrow. I don’t care. Wher- 
ever you like.” 

“ Our old restaurant, then, at seven o’clock. 
Afterward, I go to the Sands’ for an hour. Shall 
I introduce you ? You may find some old friends 
there ; at any r^te you will meet the Lelands. 
Mrs. Sands is an old friend of mine. I can intro- 
duce you without any ceremony.” 

Baldwin accepted the offer and the two sepa- 
rated for the night. On his way home, Forbes 
debated with himself whether he should ask Bald- 
win to stay again in his house. But he feared a 
refusal, and without settling the question in his 
mind he went to bed and was soon fast asleep. 
Jane dreamed that night that Forbes at last had 
declared his love. Baldwin’s fatigue had quite 
disappeared ; for a long time he walked up and 
down his room in great excitement, and once more, 
as it had been four years ago, all his thoughts were 
with Jane Leland. 


58 


GOEDON BALDWIN. 


V. 

Baldwin met several old acquaintances at the 
Sands’. They invited him and he accepted their 
invitations, and thus it happened that, very soon 
after his arrival in Paris, he went every evening 
into society, and almost invariably met Jane. He 
had now been four weeks in Paris. He delayed 
his departure from day to day, and easily found 
new pretexts for remaining where he could see 
Jane. 

Baldwin was a quiet man, full of sound com- 
mon-sense. Life in foreign lands had given him 
a self-reliance and a determination of character 
which people who remain at home, surrounded by 
friends and relatives, seldom acquire in the same 
degree. But his heart, which for a long time had 
fed upon his first love in Paris, the heart of the 
Wild Man, as Forbes had called him, was still 
young and inexperienced as a child’s. He loved 
with the strength of a man and with the ingen- 
uousness of a boy, with all his heart and with all his 
soul. And Jane was no longer quite indifferent 
to the passion she inspired. She resented bitterly 
the loneliness in which she had lived latterly, and 
she missed the court of admirers which used to 
surround her. She had exercised mercilessly the 
privilege of refusing all offers, and she did not re- 
gret that she had done so ; but she was mortified 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


59 


to notice that nobody seemed to seek her favor 
any more, and that she appeared to have lost that 
power over the hearts of men which she had used 
with so little pity. At times she felt really heavy- 
hearted, almost sentimental. Even cold, heartless 
people can sometimes pity themselves very sin- 
cerely. Could she not reach the goal which most 
of her companions had attained ? Was she not 
more beautiful, richer, more intelligent than any 
of them ? If she chose to employ the arts and 
manoeuvres they had resorted to, she might 
triumph even now. But she would not. Her 
pride rebelled against the thought that she, the 
beautiful Jane Leland, should ask for love. If 
she had cared to do that, she might have conquered 
George Forbes’s heart years ago. But she had al- 
ways been proud and reserved, even to him. No- 
body could know and nobody should even know 
what was passing in her breast — George Forbes 
least of all. She wanted to be loved, and then, 
by her own free will, to give her virgin heart as 
a priceless boon to him whom she could love in 
return. But now, none seemed to care for that 
precious gift, and here was Baldwin. She well 
knew how superior he was to the affected young 
dandies that surrounded him. How noble and 
fearless was the glance of those large, clear eyes ! 
All other eyes quailed before them. How true 
and honest was the ring of that deep voice ! How 
serious, calm, and dignified was his speech ! But 


60 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


the proud look softened when it met hers ; his 
voice sank to a tender whisper when he spoke to 
her ; and his words, which scarcely dared to hint 
at what filled his heart, told her with touching, 
bashful simplicity that he loved her, as she had 
never been loved before. Yes, Gordon Baldwin 
was a man ! She could rely upon him. Every 
drop of his life’s blood belonged to her if she re- 
quired it. She need not beg for his love, as for 
that of the cold, suspicious Forbes. No ; in Bald- 
win’s eyes, her love was an invaluable treasure. 

One evening, when Baldwin met Jane at the 
house of a common friend, he told her that he could 
not stay in Paris much longer, and that he would 
go to London in a few days. 

hope you will soon return to Paris,” she 

said. 

Perhaps,” he replied ; and after a pause he 
added, in an undertone : Will you allow me to 
see you to-morrow, to say good-by ? ” 

Certainly ; with pleasure^” she answered, 
smilingly. 

‘‘Miss Leland,” began Baldwin. Then he 
stopped. She looked at him with some surprise, 
but kindly and encouragingly. “ To-morrow, 
then,” he added, “I will have the pleasure of 
calling on you at five o’clock.” 

A few minutes before the appointed hour, 
Baldwin entered the same room where, four 
years before, he had asked for Jane Leland’s 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


61 


hand. Mr. Leland had gone out, and Jane was 
alone. Miss Leland was an independent young 
lady, who even during her mother’s lifetime had 
enjoyed a great deal of liberty, and who, having 
now been for more than a year perfectly uncon- 
trolled by her father, could receive anybody she 
wished to see. 

On his way from the hotel to the Avenue 
Friedland, Baldwin had tried to think of what he 
should say to Jane. He would at last declare 
his love — that was his settled purpose ; but he 
could not determine in his own mind how to do it. 
He dared not picture to himself all that might 
happen. What if Jane refused him, as her 
mother had refused him years ago ? How would 
he thank her if she accepted him ? He shook his 
head, as if to drive away the confused thoughts 
which tormented him. He. closed his eyes, so to 
speak, to all the possibilities of his case ; and, 
half hopeful, half despairing, he went to meet his 
fate. It was a leap in the dark, and he would 
take it. 

Jane was reading in the drawing-room when 
Baldwin entered. She took a few steps toward 
him and offered him her small, slender hand. He 
kept it in his own, and looked anxiously round 
the large room, like one who is seeking for help, 
or is in fear of danger. She sought gently to 
withdraw her hand, but he detained it firmly, and 
said : 


62 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


‘^Miss Leland, years ago I stood before you 
as at tbis moment, to ask a question which you 
have never answered. Jane, trust yourself to 
me — Jane ! ” He looked at her imploringly, unable 
to utter a word. Infinite sadness, love, devotion, 
were in his eyes. Her heart beat faster. Why 
should she reject the great love which was now 
offered to her ? Forbes ! The image of the man 
she loved appeared for one short moment before 
her : the scornful mouth, the cold, criticising 
eyes, the proud, wearied face. Then the vision 
vanished, and she saw Baldwin — honest, earnest 
Baldwin — with his truthful face, in which every- 
thing lived, and everything spoke of love for her. 
She did not withdraw her hand. Her eyes 
dropped. She did not lean toward him, but he 
drew her gently to his heart, and she resisted no 
longer ; and before she was aware, her head 
rested on his breast. She wept softly — over the 
great love which she inspired, over the happiness 
which at this moment she hoped for, confusedly 
but still sincerely ; and over the sudden but now 
irrevocable loss of all the hopes of her heart. He 
kissed her pure brow, and said with emotion : 
“ My whole life will bless you for the happiness 
which you give me.” He led her to the window, 
where, half unconscious, she sank in a chair. He 
was once more master of himself, and, although 
deeply moved, he was able to talk to her quietly. 
Would she tell her father what had taken place, 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


63 


or should he do so ? She did not answer. Did 
she think her father would object to their mar- 
riage ? 

“ Oh, no,” she said, in a scarcely audible whis- 
per. 

Well, then, we have nothing more to fear. 
All will be well ! ” 

“ Yes, all will be well ! ” 

But she could not look into his eyes. Only 
yesterday she had been the mistress, whose smile 
or frown could make Baldwin happy or miser- 
able. And now she felt weak and disarmed. 
She had shot her last arrow. She had made her 
choice ; her fate was sealed. It was very differ- 
ent from what she had hoped. She looked at 
Baldwin stealthily, as if she saw him for the first 
time. Could she be proud of him ? He had 
nothing of that peculiarly aristocratic bearing 
which distinguished Forbes in her eyes ; but he 
was a noble-looking man. She need not fear that 
the world would laugh at him or at her. Her 
friends would be astonished at her choice ; after 
all she had not won a great prize. Had she been 
so fastidious and so exacting to give her hand at 
last to a man who had neither a great name nor 
a large fortune ? If she had married Forbes, 
everybody would have thought her conduct nat- 
ural. She would have waited long, but she 
would have won a great prize. But who was 
Gordon Baldwin ? A man whom nobody knew. 


64 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


for whom nobody cared. A sigh escaped her. 
She heard indistinctly, as in a dream, what Bald- 
win told her. He spoke of his life in Japan, 
since he had left her : how unhappy he had 
been ; how he had thought he could kill his sor- 
row by work ; how at last he had found rest, but 
no happiness. He spoke of the longing which 
had drawn him back to Paris, although he had 
arrived there without hope ; of his surprise when 
he had learned from Forbes that all was not yet 
lost ; of their meeting at the opera, where she 
had appeared to him so sad, so beautiful ; of the 
revival of his love, which had never really been 
dead ; and now of the indescribable happiness of 
knowing himself beloved ! 

She smiled sadly. Her heart was ready to 
burst. He could not know that it was full of despair 
for the loss of her once hoped-for happiness. The 
tear which fell on her pale, marble cheek, the 
sigh which made her bosom heave, the smile 
which glorified the beloved features, only told 
him that she loved him. 

The large clock struck, slowly and loudly, 
seven. Baldwin looked up in astonishment. Two 
hours had gone by like a few minutes. She felt 
tired and wretched, like a beaten soldier fleeing 
from the enemy, and longing for darkness and 
solitude. He rose. She gave him her hand, but 
remained seated. He bent down, and kissed her 
once more on her forehead. 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


65 


“ Good-by, until we meet again this evening, 
my own, my beloved ! ” 

“Until we meet again,” sbe repeated, mechan- 
ically. 

And now, at last, she was alone. She remained 
motionless, in the same attitude, for a few min- 
utes, looking straight before her. Then she rose, 
and slowly, noiselessly, as if in a dream, went up 
to her room. 

This, then, was the end of her ambitions. She 
was to live and die Mrs. Gordon Baldwin. She 
did not repent of what she had done ; no, she felt 
a bitter, scornful joy as she thought .of it. “Now 
Mr. Forbes will see, at last, that I did not care 
for his miserable money ! ” , 

Her greatest wish at this moment was that he 
should feel this, and that it should give him pain. 
“Will he, now that I am lost to him, regret that 
he never sought my love ? ” She shook her head 
in despair. “ I have never been anything to him ! ” 
Oh, how bitter, how bitter, was that thought ! 
Should she try once more her chances? Her 
cheeks flushed, her eyes shone brightly. Should 
she write to Baldwin, and say that she had been 
mistaken, that she had deceived him, that she 
begged his forgiveness, and wanted to take back 
her promise? Baldwin would do anything for 
her, she was quite sure of that. 

She rose, and went slowly to her writing-table. 
But there she sank down in a chair, and, covering 


66 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


her face with her hands, hurst into tears. Of 
what use was her freedom to her ? She had been 
free all these years, and Forbes had never looked 
upon her with love ! No, thank God, she had not 
sunk so low as to beg for his love ! She hated 
him ! She was not going to mourn all her life for 
his sake ! She would not give him the satisfac- 
tion of seeing her grow old in solitude. He had 
once said to her, “ Baldwin is the best of men.” 
He should see that the best of men was happy to 
devote himself entirely to her ! 

She bathed her face with cold water, to efface 
the trace of her tears. She had suddenly grown 
calm. The icy coldness of those who have lost 
all that was dearest to them, and who have con- 
quered that loss, had taken possession of her. In 
a few minutes she had grown older. She had 
done with all the hopes, with all the dreams, of 
youth. She went to her glass, to arrange her 
hair. A pale face, with burning eyes, met her 
gaze. She nodded to the vision, with a gloomy 
smile. “Good-by, Jane Leland, ” she said. She 
went down into the drawing-room, where her fa- 
ther had been waiting for her to go to dinner. 

The relations between Mr. Leland and his 
daughter were not of a kind to make Jane feel 
any embarrassment in telling him of what had 
taken place during the afternoon. She did this 
after dinner, in a calm, unconcerned manner. 

“ How do you like Mr. Baldwin ? ” she asked. 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


67 


after she had poured out the coffee for her father, 
who was enjoying a cigar — a liberty which he 
would never have taken in the drawing-room dur- 
ing the life of Mrs. Leland, nee De Montemars. 

‘‘A charming man, a very charming young 
man.” 

‘‘Would he be welcome to you as a son-in- 
law?” 

“ What — what do you say ? ” 

Jane repeated the question. Old Leland near- 
ly dropped the cup he was holding. He put it 
quickly on the table, and with a trembling hand 
he laid down his cigar ; then he bent over to his 
daughter, and looked at her in mute astonishment. 

“ Mr. Baldwin asked me this afternoon to be 
his wife. He will ask for your consent this even- 
ing.” 

“ And I will give it him with all my heart ; I 
would never have refused it. . . . My darling 
child, I am happy. ... I am an old man. I 
may die any day. It has imbittered these last 
years to think that I should have to leave you 
alone. Now I can live and die in peace. Bald- 
win is a good and noble man. I have always liked 
him, and have often regretted that your dear moth- 
er refused his offer. My dear Jane, my only child, 
my daughter ! ” 

He embraced her affectionately ; he was much 
more excited than she was : so much more that 
her coolness did not strike him. He begged her 


68 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


to tell him how it all had happened; and she had 
already begun, in a very business-like manner, to 
do so, when the door opened and Mr. Baldwin was 
announced. Leland went joyfully to meet him, 
and with beaming face he pressed his hand and 
only said, ‘‘Welcome, my dear son ; ” then he sat 
down trembling, incapable of uttering another 
word. 

Baldwin was almost as moved as the old gen- 
tleman. Jane looked at them both almost con- 
temptuously. She had fought her battle, she was 
tired and longing for rest. Why all this excite- 
ment ? She listened with indifference to the plans 
which her father and her lover made for the fu- 
ture. She nodded or said “ yes,” when a look or 
a word asked for her consent. She was indifferent 
to everything. Sometimes it seemed to her that 
she was not at all concerned in what was going 
on before her. She was as if in a dream. Every- 
thing appeared to her dark and confused. Was it 
really her own future they were discussing ? Could 
those two men dispose of her? Was she no longer 
free ? Was Forbes lost to her forever ? Once 
more the desperate resolution which had tempted 
her in her room recurred to her. Should she rise 
and call out : “ Stop ! You are mistaken ! I have 
deceived you ! I love another ! ” But then Forbes 
appeared before her, smiling scornfully, No ! 
anything was better than to be sneered at by that 
man, perhaps to be pitied by him. And Baldwin 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


. 69 


was a good, noble-liearted man. She would learn 
to love him. All might yet he well. 

It was settled that the more intimate acquaint- 
ances should he informed of the engagement on 
the morrow, and that in two months’ time — in July 
— the wedding should take place. 

“ Where shall we live ? In Paris or in Lon- 
don? ” asked Baldwin. 

Wherever you like,” was Jane’s answer. 

“ In Paris,” interposed old Leland. Nowhere 
in the world can a young married couple live as 
pleasantly as in Paris. Besides, I am accustomed 
to this life — and I would find it difficult at my age 
to adopt another. Then you have so many good 
old friends here — the Imgards, the Kellogs, the 
Sands, and Forhes and Hewitt, and many others.” 

‘Wery well, let it he in Paris, then,” and this 
closed the conversation. 


VI. 

The engagement between Gordon Baldwin 
and Miss Leland was for many days the principal 
topic of conversation among the American resi- 
dents in Paris. The girls and the young married 
women talked about it very much in the spirit 
which Jane had foreseen. They were by no means 
jealous of her conquest, and there was a touch of 
sarcasm in their remarks. The young men were 


70 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


indifferent. They had no claims on Jane and were 
inclined to consider the stranger from Yesso a hold 
man. They hoped he would have energy enough 
to tame the proud spirit of his bride. Some proph- 
esied that he would follow in the steps of his 
father-in-law, who had been the model of obedient 
husbands. Others remarked that he did not look 
like a man who would consent to be led by any 
one, not even by an adored wife. The old ladies 
and gentlemen who had given up all idea of either 
Jane or Baldwin for their unmarried sons or 
daughters were perfectly satisfied with the ar- 
rangement. 

George Forbes alone, though he had been 
aware of the growing affection of his former friend 
for Jane Leland, was astonished when he heard 
of the marriage. He had never made up his mind 
to ask her to be his wife. He did not love her ; 
but he could see that in beauty and in intellect 
she far surpassed all the other American girls of 
his acquaintance. Nor had it escaped his notice 
that he was not indifferent to Jane, although she 
had always treated him with great reserve. Men 
are as quick-sighted as women in this respect, and 
have a great liking for those whom they please. 
Forbes had said to himself more than once that, 
if ever he did marry, he would take Jane Leland. 
He thought of her as he would have thought of a 
precious work of art for his house, which he could 
only acquire at great cost, but which would give 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


71 


him proportionate pleasure. “She would look 
well,” he said to himself, “ as the mistress of my 
house at a large dinner-party, or at a ball, or by 
my side in an open carriage.” The thought had 
never struck him that he might not be able to se- 
cure this “precious thing,” when he wanted it, 
any more than he doubted that he could buy any 
beautiful picture which he liked. The only ques- 
tion was to pay the price. Up to the present time 
Jane Leland had been a little too expensive for 
him. She was not worth the sacrifice, just yet, of 
the numerous enjoyments of a free bachelor life. 
But he had never quite given her up. In his mind 
she was “marked,” as in a sale catalogue, as a 
desideratum, and he was only waiting for an op- 
portunity for a favorable state of mind to conclude 
the bargain. He had never thought it possible 
that Jane could escape him ; he had never feared 
any of her numerous lovers, and Baldwin indeed 
less than two or three of those whom the proud 
beauty had refused. The “Wild Man” was a 
good, honest fellow, but that would be ho great 
recommendation in the eyes of his practical coun- 
trywoman. He possessed a fair fortune, but ac- 
cording to Forbes’s ideas he could not even be 
called rich. Why should Jane treat him differ- 
ently from her other admirers ? And yet, so it 
was. Gordon Baldwin was her affianced husband, 
and she lost for him. At first he did not feel much 
grieved ; he only felt a peculiar, unpleasant rest- 


72 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


lessness. He knew that henceforward something 
would be wanting in his life. Many things he had 
not thought of for a long time now struck him 
suddenly with unpleasant vividness. He noticed 
that he was no longer young, and that his acquaint- 
ances began to treat him like an old bachelor. 
When he went into society the lady of the house 
no longer asked him to dance ; but the host inquired, 
in a friendly whisper, if he would take a hand 
at whist. He remembered that all his wealth had 
not purchased for him a single friend, and that this 
lone life, which had never oppressed him before, 
was after all very unsatisfactory. The remem- 
brance of Thomas Graham, to whom for a long 
while he had not given a thought, arose in his 
mind. If they had been together, he would not 
feel so lonely. But between him and Thomas 
there was a great gulf. They could never meet 
again. He thought over all the marriageable girls 
of his acquaintance, but among them there was 
not one who could fill the place of Jane Leland. 
He felt angry with her. It appeared to him that 
she had treated him badly, unfairly. For years 
there had been a peculiar intimacy between them. 
She ought to have given warning” when she 
meant to break it off. He had thought better of 
her than to suppose that she would throw herself 
away upon the first stranger she met. But it was 
now too late to complain ; he had to make the best 
of it. He went to Baldwin’s hotel and con- 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


73 


gratulated him with apparently genuine pleasure ; 
thence he drove to the Avenue Friedland, and left 
his card, upon which he had written in pencil : 
“My best wishes.” Then he went home and tried 
to persuade himself that nothing particular had 
happened. He yawned more than ever over the 
papers ; he found his dinner abominable, and de- 
clared to the waiter that he would not come again, 
if he were not better served. He thought the 
play that was played by the best actors of the 
Palais Royal terribly tedious and silly ; and he 
remained only a short time at the gambling-table. 
Contrary to his habit, he walked home from his 
club to enjoy the fresh air on the quay and to tire 
himself by exercise. 

The broad, beautiful walk along the line from 
the Pont Royal to the Pont d’lena is in the ev- 
ening almost deserted. Forbes could indulge in 
his thoughts undisturbed ; and for more than an 
hour he walked up and down. He was pleased 
with the lonely place, and from that evening he 
often found his way to it. A great change must 
have taken place when he, who had never been in- 
clined to reverie, found pleasure in this quiet walk. 
But now he too had his dreams, just like other less 
cold-hearted people. He had found out that his 
life might have been better than it now promised 
to be, and that one cannot despise unselfish affec- 
tion without suffering for it. To Thomas Graham, 
to Gordon Baldwin, to Jane Leland, he had been 


74 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


sometliiiig more than merely the “rich George 
Forbes ; ” but in them too he had suspected selfish 
motives. And now it was too late to correct his 
mistake. “ Too late ! ” He repeated that bitter 
word again and again. He knew well enough that 
Baldwin had never met him again with the old 
friendly confidence, and Jane could never be to 
him again what she had been. “ After all,” he 
said to himself, “ I possess very little in this world, 
though I am a rich man.” 

Summer was come. Most of the friends of 
the Lelands had either left or were preparing to 
leave Paris, to go to some watering-place. Forbes 
too had made his plans for the summer, and would 
have been gone already, if he had had the heart 
to refuse Baldwin’s invitation to the wedding. He 
generally found no difficulty in giving a refusal ; 
but in this instance he had accepted, not so much 
to please Baldwin as to avoid any appearance of 
being in any way vexed at the approaching mar- 
riage. Forbes and Jane acted their parts before 
the world so as to deceive everybody, except them- 
selves. Forbes affected a friendly, unselfish de- 
sire to make himself agreeable, and offered many 
little services, which were intended to promote the 
future comfort of the young couple. Jane never 
showed greater satisfaction with her fate than 
when Forbes was present. But sometimes, when 
their eyes met, a look of bitter reproach passed 
between them. The young bride thought of it at 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


75 


night, and enjoyed the triumph of knowing that 
Forbes repented, now that it was too late, of what 
he had done, or rather of what he had left undone ; 
and when Forbes, with his hand in his pocket, his 
head bowed in deep thought, walked up and down 
the lonely quay, he repeated to himself, with re- 
gretful pride, that, if it had been his pleasure, he 
might for years past have occupied that place by 
Jane’s side for which Baldwin had to fight so 
hard. 

Baldwin and old Mr. Leland were the best of 
friends, and perfectly happy. ISTot a shadow of 
suspicion troubled their contented minds. Jane 
had accepted Baldwin’s offer. For those two sim- 
ple-minded men, this was the best proof that she 
loved him. They did not know how to solve psy- 
chological problems, and suspected no secret. In 
her intercourse with Baldwin, J ane did not show 
that devotion and confidence which, in theory, he 
might have expected from his betrothed, but he 
thought that her coldness was only the result of 
maidenly reserve, and he admired her all the more 
for it. Old Leland was not very clear-sighted, 
and his wife had certainly not spoiled him by an 
over-measure of affection. He thought Jane’s be- 
havior to her husband in every way perfectly nat- 
ural and becoming. 

The two months’ interval between the engage- 
ment and the wedding had quickly gone by, and 
at last the day came and passed like other days. 


76 


GOKDON BALDWIN. 


The marriage took place with great splendor. 
Many of Jane’s friends had come from the coun- 
try to see the beautiful Miss Leland ” on her 
wedding-day. She was, indeed, very beautiful on 
this occasion. It was noticed that she was very 
pale, and that her eyes remained so obstinately 
fixed on the ground during the ceremony, that not 
one of the wedding-guests could obtain a look at 
her. Only a few intimate friends were invited to 
the breakfast. Among these was George Forbes. 
His eyes sought again and again those of the 
bride. But not once did they meet. She saw 
nothing, and she would see nothing, of what was 
going on around her. 

After the breakfast the young couple disap- 
peared in that mysterious manner which fashion 
has prescribed, and were not seen for some months. 
Shortly after the wedding Forbes went to Amer- 
ica, where, as he said, important business required 
his presence. Old Leland went to Trouville, where 
he met many of his friends, to whom he confided 
at intervals — say from eight to ten days — that he 
had the best news of the young couple, who were 
making a wedding-tour in Norway and Sweden, 
and were as happy as two lovers could be. 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


77 


YII. 

In the beginning of the winter Mr. and Mrs. 
Gordon Baldwin returned from their wedding- 
trip. They took apartments in the Avenue de 
I’Imperatrice, in the immediate neighborhood of 
Forbes’s house. They led a very retired life, and 
only received George Forbes and a few of their 
most intimate friends. Nobody wondered at this, 
for the young people were in deep mourning. A 
few days before their return to Paris they had re- 
ceived news of the sudden illness, and almost im- 
mediately after of the death, of Mr. Leland. He 
had been a weak, kind-hearted old man, and he 
was sincerely regretted by all who knew him. 

Mrs. Baldwin, his only child, inherited the 
whole of his large fortune, with the exception of 
some trifling legacies to distant relations and 
friends. His son-in-law, Mr. Gordon Baldwin, 
and ‘^Mr. George Forbes, of New York, now resi- 
dent in Paris, son of my late friend, Mr. Richard 
Forbes,” were appointed executors. 

One passage in Leland’s will aroused Baldwin’s 
attention, and was listened to by Forbes with vis- 
ible embarrassment : 

‘^ . . . Further, a sum of ten thousand dollars 
to Mr. Thomas Lansdale, half-brother of Mr. 
George Forbes, son of the late Major Thomas 
Lansdale, of Baltimore, and of his wife, Maria, 


78 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


who was married a second time to Mr. Richard 
Forbes, of San Francisco and New York. This 
sum is to be remitted to Thomas Lansdale, with 
the assurance that, under all circumstances, I have 
remained his true friend. ...” 

Baldwin looked in astonishment at Forbes, 
whose eyes were steadily fixed on the ground. 

“ I didn’t know you had a brother,” said Bald- 
win, half an hour later, when he was walking 
homeward with Forbes. 

‘‘We’ll talk about it another time,” said Forbes. 
“ My brother’s story is not a very pleasant one ; I 
don’t feel inclined to speak about it to-day.” 

Since his return from America, George Forbes 
had been habitually very little inclined to talk. 
He had always been very reserved in his manner, 
and since Jane’s marriage he had grown more and 
more so. His trip to America had not cheered 
him. His countrymen appeared to him rude and 
uncultivated. He thought the men conceited, 
full of unjustified pride ; the free and indepen- 
dent tone of the women in their intercourse with 
men displeased him still more. Formerly, it had 
been a pleasant pastime to laugh and joke with 
his pretty countrywomen ; now, their manner 
seemed to him forward and noisy. He only re- 
mained a month in the United States, and then 
returned to Europe. 

The ten days’ voyage from New York to Liver- 
pool seemed never to come to an end. He longed 


GORDON BALDWIN, 


79 


for a storm to break the tediousness of the journey; 
but the heavens were blue and pure during the 
day, and the nights wonderfully bright with stars. 
The ocean lay around him in overwhelming, op- 
pressive monotony, like a colossal mirror. He liked 
to sit in the stern of the ship, far away from the 
other passengers, and watch the white, dancing 
furrow of foam which followed the track of the 
fast - speeding vessel. He had no distinct sad 
thoughts — ^he did not always dwell upon the fact 
that he had lost every friend he had in this world. 
Only dimly, passing by as in a dream, arose be- 
fore him the vision of Jane, Gordon, Thomas ; a 
strange, dull uneasiness, like the presentiment of 
a great misfortune, weighed on his heart. “ What 
ails me ? ” he asked himself, angrily. “ Do I not 
possess everything to make me happy ? I am rich, 
I am still young. Few men have the same ad- 
vantages toward enjoying life as I ! What is it 
that ails me ? ” He could not answer these ques- 
tions. But his heart was heavy ; the dark, gloomy 
thoughts would not go away. A barren past, a 
desolate future, a joyless existence — and a hope- 
less one. 

The summer was not quite over when Forbes 
landed in Europe. London and Paris, where he 
remained a few days, seemed to him deserted and 
deadly wearisome. In Paris he remained a day 
longer than he originally intended, to examine, 
and finally to buy, a large picture which he had 


80 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


accidentally seen in the shop of a picture-dealer. 
He had it immediately sent to his house, where it 
took the place of the beautiful, voluptuous Ru- 
bens which for many years had adorned his bed- 
room. 

It was an ugly picture on which his eyes now 
feasted morning and night. It represented Seneca 
rising from his last bath, dripping with blood, with 
his dying lips uttering w’ords of wisdom, which a 
weeping disciple is writing down. Beneath this 
hideous scene stood the words, ‘^Taedet tamdiu 
eadem fecisse.” ' Forbes had this phrase trans- 
lated, and when he understood its meaning, his 
eyes lighted up, and he said in a tone of satisfac- 
tion and approval, That is a good picture and a 
good niaxim ; ” and without haggling he paid an 
exorbitant price for the wretched daub. 

Forbes went from Paris to several watering- 
places. Everywhere he found the same elegant 
dandies, the same over-dressed women, the same 
carriages and boats ; everywhere the same wait- 
ers, and coachmen, and boatmen. At the railway- 
stations he saw the same well-known porters ; at 
the hotels he was received by the same stereotyped 
head waiter with the same stereotyped bow, who, 
recognizing by his luggage and his servants the 
wealthy traveler, led him into the gaudy waiting- 
room with the pretentious furniture and velvet 
chairs and curtains. In the reading-room he found 

^ It is wearisome to be always doing the same things. 


GORDOiNT BALDWIN. 


81 


the same torn number of Figaro^ the same 
Times^ stained with coffee and tea spots, which 
he had seen at the last place. “ It is, indeed, tire- 
some always to do, hear, and see the same thing,” 
he said to himself. 

He returned to Paris in the beginning of Octo- 
ber. He went very little into society, and neglect- 
ed his club altogether. But every evening, between 
the hours of ten and twelve, he could be found on 
the lonely quay along the Seine, where he walked 
slowly up and down with his head bent, and his 
hands folded behind him. 

One evening, not long after the reading of 
Leland’s will, he was met on his lonely walk by 
Gordon Baldwin. 

What are you doing here, at this hour of the 
night ? ” said Baldwin. 

Forbes replied that a walk before he went to 
bed had almost become a necessity to him. 

There is not a quieter place in all Paris,” he 
said ; “ after eleven o’clock you are as much alone 
here as if you were hundreds of miles away from 
the large city. And yet, you have only to take a 
few steps to be again in the midst of crowded, 
busy life. I like this contrast ; it prepares me, 
as it were, for the solitude I find on my arrival 
home. — But this is no place for a newly-mar- 
ried man. What are you doing here this stormy 
night?” 

Baldwin gave an evasive reply, and, rather for 
6 


82 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


the sake of turning the conversation than from 
curiosity, he said : 

“You still owe me an answer to my ques- 
tion about your brother. Are you inclined to 
speak about it to-day ? I do not wish to be indis- 
creet, but at any rate I must ask you to give me 
his address, as I have to write to him that my 
father-in-law left him ten thousand dollars.” 

“You know Thomas Lansdale’s address as 
well as I do.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Thomas Lansdale and Thomas Graham are 
one and the same person.” 

Baldwin was astounded, but made no reply. 
He imagined that something very serious or pain- 
ful must have occurred to induce his partner in 
Hakodate to assume another name, and to conceal 
from him the relationship existing between him- 
self and Forbes. He did not care to learn the 
particulars. Whatever might have happened be- 
tween the two brothers, Baldwin was perfectly 
sure that Graham, whom he had known now for 
eight years, was worthy of the confidence he 
placed in him. 

“ It is a sad story,” said Forbes, after a pause. 
He stopped again, and then continued in an indif- 
ferent tone: “My father and brother never agreed 
together. My father was a stem man ; Thomas, 
as I knew him, was wild and reckless. Violent 
scenes frequently took place between the two. 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


83 


As long as my mother was alive she was the peace- 
maker; hut shortly after her death, Thomas had 
to leave the house. He spent his money wildly, 
and incurred debts everywhere, not so much for 
himself as to assist a set of worthless impostors 
that surrounded him. But that was not the worst. 
He married, without my father’s knowledge, a 
woman who deceived and betrayed the poor, cred- 
ulous fool. She caused much misery. She died 
many years ago in want and wretchedness. The 
less that is said about her, the better. When my 
father heard of Thomas’s marriage, he became 
very much enraged. He was a passionate man, 
who was not master of himself when he was an- 
gry. He went to Chicago, where my brother was 
living at the time, to force him to separate from 
his wife. Thomas worshiped the unworthy creat- 
ure. My father’s interference made him mad with 
rage. . . . It is a terrible story. ...” 

Forbes stopped for a moment. He had com- 
pletely lost the composure with which he began. 
His trembling voice betrayed a deep inner emo- 
tion. 

‘‘You must recollect that no blood-relationship 
existed between Thomas and his step-father. . . . 
My father was a powerful man. Since his old 
Californian days, he had been in the habit of car- 
rying a revolver. In Chicago, there was hardly 
a man at that time who went about unarmed. . . . 
My father was terribly provoked by Thomas .... 


84 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


my brother ordered him to leave the house .... 
laid hands on him. . . . He was wounded by my 
father — God be thanked, not seriously, still he 
was wounded. The sad affair was hushed up ; only 
a few intimate friends, old Leland among them, 
knew anything about it. Thomas recovered from 
his wound ; his circumstances went from bad 
to worse ; his wife dragged him lower and lower. 
Yet he would not consent to what we asked of 
him : separate from his wife. My father died 
without seeing him again, without forgiving him. 
Then Thomas addressed himself to me. What 
could I do ? I could not wrong the memory of 
my father. He had done no injury. . . . Then I 
heard nothing of Thomas Lansdale for a long time, 
until five years ago you brought me the first news 
of him. . . . That is my brother’s story ! ” 

Baldwin remained silent when Forbes had fin- 
ished his narrative. 

“You think I have done wrong,” said the sus- 
picious man — “ you think I have acted harshly ? ” 

“ I don’t think I could have been angry so long 
with a brother,” said Baldwin, in a serious tone. 
“ Thomas Graham is a good man ; everybody who 
knows him likes and respects him.” 

“ He was not always so quiet and good ; he was 
wild and reckless ; more than ten times my father 
paid his debts.” 

“ He is your brother ! ” 

They had now arrived at a point where their 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


85 


ways separated. Baldwin bade his companion 
good-night and walked quickly away. 

Forbes went slowly home. His luxurious apart- 
ments seemed to him indescribably sad and lonely. 
He went to his study and took from a desk, where 
he kept his private papers, an envelope with an in- 
scription in his own handwriting : “ To be burned 
unread after my death. Letters from T. L.” He 
read these letters. The stern features of his cold 
face became softer and sadder. Was it possible 
that he had not heeded these touching complaints 
and prayers, which now moved him so deeply ? 
He put the letters aside with a heavy sigh, and sat 
for a long time in his chair without moving. 

“ He was my brother ! ” he whispered at length, 
repeating Baldwin’s last reproachful words. . He 
was my brother — and strangers saved him from 
utter ruin.” And now the past arose before him, 
vividly, as if it had only happened yesterday. He 
remembered the evening when Thomas had bidden 
him farewell in his bedroom, the evening when he 
had to leave the house, at his father’s command. 
He saw him, as he stood before him with his pale 
face, his long, fair hair, his large, anxious blue eyes 
— the eyes of his dead mother. “ George,” he 
whispered, “ you must not tell your father that I 
have been here. He forbade me to see you. But 
I could not go away without saying good-by to 
you, my brother. Good-by, George, don’t forget 
me ; think of me kindly.” Then he had kissed him. 


86 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


and Forbes felt the burning tears on his brother’s 
cheeks ; and he strolled softly away. “ He was my 
brother, my brother.” Then, many years after, he 
saw Thomas again in a street in ISTew York. He 
looked wretched and was shabbily dressed. It was 
a cold, wet evening. He wore an old, thin suit, 
in which he seemed to be cold. For three days 
I have been watching for you.- Oh, George ! hear 
me, save me, I am lost ! ” And he, Forbes, had 
had the courage to refuse him. Have you sepa- 
rated from your wife ? ” She is ill, George, 
dying ; help me ! ” “ Will you promise me to 

leave her ? ” George, help me ! help me ! ” How 
deeply these words, now after long years, cut into 
his heart ! And he had not helped. And he 
was my brother ! ” Like a hideous nightmare it 
weighed upon his mind. A hopeless sadness 
shrouded him as in a dark, icy cloak. He might 
have had a brother, a friend, a beloved wife : 
Thomas, Gordon, Jane ! He had lost all ; lost 
forever ! And what had he left ? A large for- 
tune. And what could he do with it ? Always 
the same thing : ‘‘Tsedet tamdiu eadem fecisse.” 


VHI. 

Baldwin had turned the conversation quickly 
when Forbes alluded to his married life. It was 
a subject he did not like to talk about. His mar- 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


87 


riage was not an unhappy one, but he had certain- 
ly not found the happiness which he had dreamed, 
Jane, as his wife, was as reserved and cold as she 
had been before her marriage. She was not ill- 
tempered or petulant, and gave him no ground for 
complaint ; but he never heard her laugh, and she 
went about as if some secret sorrow crushed her 
down. Baldwin was very much distressed about 
this. By perfect frankness, by tender attentions, 
by touching devotion, he had tried to gain her 
affection, and he had failed. After a time his 
pride rebelled against giving his heart’s love where 
he received in return nothing but cold politeness. 
Sometimes his blood would rise in anger when he 
clasped this creature to his heart, and he felt that 
no echo to his love came from her bosom. But 
he conquered this feeling, and only sighed as he 
dropped the delicate little hand which she had 
passively yielded to him, and now passively let fall. 

Why was not Jane happy? Baldwin did all 
he could think of to give her pleasure. She did 
not seem to notice it. 'No expression of gratitude 
ever animated the beautiful face, no kind word 
passed those stern lips ; her large, intelligent eyes 
looked apathetically upon everything that sur- 
rounded her. Baldwin was cast down, restless, 
unhappy. 

‘‘ What is the matter with you, my dear Jane ? ” 
he asked, one evening, as they were sitting to- 
gether before the fire. Are you ill ? ” 


88 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


‘^ Nothing is the matter with me/’ she replied, 
languidly. 

“You conceal something from me. What is 
it ? I have only one supreme wish — to see you 
happy.” 

“Nothing is the matter,” she repeated. She 
stared with wide-open eyes into the fire, and 
Baldwin saw two big tears roll down her pale 
cheeks. 

He sat beside her, took her into his arms, and, 
with the tenderness of a mother trying to soothe 
a suffering child, he said : “ Do speak to me, my 
beloved.” 

She pushed him gently away, and only replied : 
“ I am a little tired. I don’t know what is the 
matter with me. Let me be.” 

He looked at her anxiously. “I will call a 
doctor. You are ill.” 

She shook her head sadly ; the tears came 
faster and faster, but not a word passed her lips. 

“Will you not answer me?” he asked, once 
more, softly and tenderly. 

“ What can I answer ? ” she exclaimed, passion- 
ately. “ Have you anything to reproach me with ? 
Do I not obey every wish of yours ? Do I ever 
complain? What more do you want? Don’t 
torment me ! ” 

He looked at her in astonishment. He left the 
room without saying another word. He could not 
remain in the house, he felt too unhappy. He 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


89 


took his hat, and went into the fresh air to calm 
his excited nerves. 

Baldwin was an intelligent, practical man, who 
had battled in his life with all sorts of difficulties. 
He knew they could not he overcome by sitting 
still and letting events take their own course. A 
great misfortune, an approaching danger, seemed 
to strengthen his intellectual powers, and increase 
his courage. He was able to perceive and exam- 
ine, in one moment, every issue out of a difficulty, 
but he felt he was helpless against the griefs which 
now filled his heart. He walked for a long time 
up and down the dimly-lighted avenue, asking 
himself again and again how to remedy this un- 
happy state of affairs. 

Meanwhile, Jane had not moved from her iseat. 
She had dried her tears, and was still fixedly gaz- 
ing into the fire. 

For a short time, immediately after her mar- 
riage, she had made an attempt to like Baldwin. 
As she did not succeed immediately, she quickly 
gave it up, and now she disliked him. She 
thought him ill-bred, vulgar. His heavy step 
made her nervous, his loud voice made her trem- 
ble ; the manifestations of his affection, which 
she dared not repel, were painful to her. ‘‘ Why 
doesn’t he leave me alone ? ” she asked herself 
bitterly ; why does he torment me with his 
love ? ” She had never in her life thought of 
anything but her own happiness and comfort. 


90 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


Even when she made a feeble effort to like Bald- 
win, she had only considered her own interests. 
She had said to herself it would he pleasanter to 
live with a man whom she could love, than with 
one who was indifferent to her. The welfare of 
strangers gave her very little concern, and Bald- 
win was a stranger to her. He was her husband 
— so much the worse. She cursed the hour when, 
in a mood of vexation, despondency, and weak- 
ness, she had permitted him to take her into his 
arms. She had been short-sighted enough to 
believe in her love when, for a moment, her head 
had rested on his shoulder. Her love ? He had 
no idea how she could love. Baldwin grew from 
day to day more disagreeable to her. She had to 
press her lips tightly together not to give vent to 
her feelings of displeasure when he noisily opened 
the door and entered the room ; she was shocked 
when he threw himself into an easy - chair. 

Forbes was right to call him a savage ; he is 
one, and he ought to have married a savage,” she 
said to herself. What a difference between him 
and Forbes! But Forbes she longed to be able to 
hate. He was the cause of all her misery. One 
thing comforted her. She saw that Forbes was 
unhappy too. She would have liked to give him 
an enchanted potion, to instill into his breast the 
same dull, heavy misery that oppressed her heart. 
Yet she recognized his gentle, elastic step as soon 
as he approached her ; his soft, calm voice was 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


91 


music in her ears. She reproached herself bit- 
terly, not because in her heart she was unfaithful 
to her vow, but because her pride could not cure 
her of her love. “ I wish he were dead, and I 
too, and all would be over.” 

A ring at the bell awoke her from her gloomy 
dreams. It was nine o’clock : who could it be ? 
She knew her husband always carried a latch- 
key. 

“ George Forbes ! ” she whispered. Since the 
death of her father, he was the only acquaintance 
who visited her in the evening. She had never 
been alone with him since her marriage ; she did 
not wish to be so. She rose quickly to leave the 
room : it was too late. The servant opened the 
door and announced Mr. Forbes. 

On a table in the large room a lamp was 
burning, whose flame, subdued by a shade, only 
illuminated the space immediately surrounding 
the table ; outside of this narrow circle the room 
was wrapped in a soft, mysterious light. 

Forbes sat down by Jane’s side. He inquired 
after Baldwin. She told him he had gone out. 
Then the conversation stopped. The pause was 
painful. Jane tried in vain to say something. 
At last Forbes began. Plis voice sounded strange 
and husky. 

“ I am very happy to see you once more alone, 
as in the old times. I want to ask you for an 
explanation.” 


92 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


She did not answer ; she looked steadily into 
the fire. 

Will you tell me,” he continued, “ what I 
have done to incur your displeasure ? ” 

She did not raise her head, hut looked at him 
sideways. Her face was in the shade ; he could 
not recognize her expression. He waited for a 
few seconds, and when he received no reply he 
cfbntinued : 

We have been good friends for many years, 
at least I have always thought so. What have I 
done to forfeit your friendship ? Since your mar- 
riage you treat me like a stranger — worse than a 
stranger. I have tried to keep your kind opinion, 
tried to regain it, but I know only too well that 
I have not succeeded ; and, I assure you, it grieves 
me very much. My acquaintances think me cold, 
heartless. I care very little for their opinion. I 
owe this reputation merely to the fact that I have 
not allowed other people to dupe me. I confess 
it is not easy to gain my confidence. I am not in 
the habit of opening my heart to everybody. I 
think this is the first time in my life that I have 
ever spoken about myself ; and I wish you to 
know what I really am. As a rule, I am not 
friendly to confidential communications. My ex- 
perience has taught me that people who took me 
into their secrets tried to borrow money from me 
immediately afterward. I am known to be sus- 
picious in that respect, and not easily approached. 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


93 


But just because I have so few friends, so very 
few, I set a high value upon the good-will of 
those in whose disinterested sincerity I have faith. 
Formerly I counted you among those few. Have 
I been mistaken? That would be a great mis- 
fortune. Greater than I dare tell you.” 

His voice had a subdued, gentle, affectionate 
tone, which Jane had never heard in it before. 
Her blood rushed through her veins like fire ; her 
heart beat as if it would burst. How dared this 
man speak to her in this manner ? He had de- 
spised her when she was free, when she would 
have willingly given herself to him. He was the 
cause of her misfortune ; he had driven her to 
despair. What were his intentions now? Was 
he mocking her ? was he laughing at her ? or did 
he want to take advantage of her nameless mis- 
ery to make her the object of his, of her own 
contempt ? 

She remained silent. She could only maintain 
an appearance of self-possession by not saying a 
word. 

Will you answer me, Mrs. Baldwin — Jane ? ” 
He bent over her ; she felt his hot breath on her 
cheeks ; he was going to take her hand. 

She started from her seat as pale as death, 
raised her hand with a grand gesture, and pointed 
toward the door. 

He rose, too, utterly confounded. “ Madam,” 
he muttered. Her flashing eyes looked at him 


94 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


with such an expression of passionate wrath, of 
crushing contempt, that he could not say another 
word. Unutterably humiliated, he stole noiseless- 
ly to the door. She remained, like a statue, in 
the same magnificent, threatening posture, and 
only when the door had closed upon Forbes did 
she sink fainting into a chair. 

Forbes rushed down the avenue like a mad- 
man. Not far from Baldwin’s house he crossed a 
tall man, who turned and looked at him in aston- 
ishment, and then slowly continued his way. 

‘‘ Has Forbes been here ? ” asked Baldwin, 
when he entered the room a few moments later. 

Jane, still seated before the fire, with her back 
turned toward him, did not answer. He looked 
at her. She was sitting with half-closed eyes and 
white lips, as if she were dead. He took her into 
his strong arms and carried her, as though she 
had been a child, into her bedroom. He had often 
seen people sick and dying, and he did not for a 
moment lose his self-possession. He saw at once 
that she was in a fainting-fit, and by means of a 
few simple remedies he succeeded in reviving 
her. She opened her eyes and looked at him 
strangely. 

“Wretch ! ” she murmured. 

“What has happened?” asked Baldwin, anx- 
iously. 

She recognized him, shut her eyes again, and 
turned her face, as if she wished to go to sleep. 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


95 


Gordon remained by her side for some time 
without speaking ; at last he asked her once more 
what had happened. She answered in a scarcely 
audible voice : 

I am tired — I want to sleep; let me rest now.” 

In face of this real or pretended weakness he 
felt absolutely helpless. He called her servant, 
and, giving her a few directions, left the room. 
Anger, suspicion, jealousy tormented his heart. 
He had met Forbes in the street rushing past like 
a madman ; immediately after he had found his 
wife at home in a swoon. What had taken place 
between the two ? He was determined to know 
it, and at once. His wife would not or could not 
answer. Forbes must speak without delay. 

It was a mild March evening ; the house- door 
was open; the concierge was standing on the side- 
walk before the next house talking to a neighbor. 
Baldwin left the house without being seen. He 
walked quickly to Forbes’s apartments ; every 
window was dark. Baldwin continued his way, 
and in a few minutes reached the quay. It was 
completely deserted, not a soul to be seen. At 
Baldwin’s right the dark waters of the Seine, 
swollen by spring rains, rushed swiftly toward 
the sea. Numberless lights from the opposite 
bank were reflected in fantastic, zigzag lines ; to 
the left rose the old trees of the Cours de la Heine, 
spreading around their deep shade. From the 
distance resounded the dull, incessant rolling of 


96 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


carnages. When Baldwin was about half-way 
between the Pont d’lena and the Pont des In- 
valides, he saw close before him the figure of a 
man leaning over the low stone wall which sepa- 
rates the quay from the river. Baldwin recog- 
nized the man he was seeking. Forbes, roused 
by the quick, heavy step, lifted his head, and the 
two men stood face to face. A street-lamp shed 
a pale light over them. Forbes was deadly white. 
Baldwin, excited by the quick walk and the storm 
that raged within him, stood before him with 
burning face and hashing eyes. 

“What have you done in my house?” he 
asked. He spoke almost in a whisper, but with 
an ominous trembling in his voice. 

Forbes looked at him in confusion, unable to 
utter a word. 

“ What have you done in my house ? ” Bald- 
win repeated, louder. — short pause. — “ Will you 
answer me ? Forbes ! do you hear me ? Answer 
me ! ” 

“You are too excited now to listen to me,” 
said Forbes, at last. “ Come into my house ; I 
can explain everything.” 

“ I will not cross the threshold of your door 
again. You shall answer me now ! here ! at 
once ! ” 

Involuntarily Forbes stepped back. Baldwin 
seized him by the shoulders : “You shall not 
escape me ! Answer me ! Answer ! ” 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


97 


Baldwin was a powerful man. His passion 
gave him the strength of a giant. He shook 
Forbes like a light, lifeless thing. Answer me ! ” 
he cried once more, in a furious rage. 

For about the* tenth part of a second Bald- 
win saw before him a deadly-pale, fast-receding 
face, out of which a pair of large black eyes stared 
at him with maddened terror. Then he saw that 
Forbes, whom he had pushed violently away, 
stumbled. He saw him fall backward against the 
sharp edge of the low stone wall, and break down 
with an awful groan ; he heard his head strike 
with a heavy thud against the stones — then all 
was still. Forbes was lying on the sidewalk, and 
Baldwin bending anxiously over the convulsed 
face. 

“ Forbes ! ” 

ISTo answer. 

The eyes of the dying man opened once more 
in the last agony. A short rattling in his throat 
— a convulsive stretching and moving of the limbs 
— then all at once perfect, motionless repose . . . 
the repose of death. . . . 

Baldwin looked around wildly. For two or 
three seconds he stood irresolute. Then his cool, 
clear common-sense, which had never deserted 
him in the hour of danger, recognized the danger- 
ous position. He heard the rolling of a heavy 
carriage, and at a distance of not more than a 
hundred yards he perceived the red light of an 
7 


98 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


omnibus. With a few leaps be was on the oppo- 
site side of the quay, under tbe shade of the trees. 

The omnibus passed without stopping ; but 
now two persons approached from the Pont des 
Invalides. It was so quiet that he could hear 
every word they said. 

‘‘What’s this?” said one of them, stooping 
down over Forbes. 

“ A drunken man.” 

“ Go and call a policeman ; I’ll wait here. This 
man is dead.” 

One of the men ran away in the direction of 
the Place de la Concorde. Baldwin took the op- 
posite direction ; and walking as fast as he could, 
he soon reached his home. The concierge was 
still in the street, smoking his short pipe and 
walking up and down in front of the open door. 
Baldwin succeeded in entering the house without 
attracting attention. He crept softly up-stairs, and 
managed to get into his room without being seen 
by anybody. He quickly threw off his overcoat 
and hat, took a newspaper, and sat down before 
the fire. And now, having done everything to 
wipe off his track all signs of the fatal deed, he 
began to reflect over what had taken place. 

A thousand thoughts pressed upon him, but 
not in wild confusion. He reviewed the events 
in their logical order. Forbes had insulted his 
wife. She meant him, and nobody else, when she 
exclaimed, “Wretch !” He, Baldwin, was fully 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


99 


justified in demanding an explanation. His wife 
had refused it ; lie had asked it of Forbes. He 
wanted to force Forbes to speak ; he grew angry ; 
but even in his wrath he had never had any in- 
tention of killing him. It was by accident that 
Forbes stumbled and fell. But he was dead. 
Who now could bear witness to his innocence ? 
If he denounced himself as the immediate cause 
of this involuntary homicide, he would be subject 
to the verdict of strange, suspicious judges, who 
would take his truthful statement of the circum- 
stances for lies and prevarication, who would treat 
him like a common criminal. Why should he 
expose himself to such a risk? His conscience 
reproached him with nothing. Should he give 
himself up? Should he step forward and say. 
That man has been slain by my hand ? ” Should 
he expose his fair name to malicious comments 
and suspicions ? No ! He would not. On the 
contrary, he would do everything in his power to 
avert such undeserved misfortune. 

He recalled all the circumstances that imme- 
diately preceded and followed the fatal event. 
Nobody had seen him leaving and returning to the 
house : he had not been absent for more than half 
an hour. It was impossible that suspicion should 
fall upon him. “Nobody can know what I have 
done,” he said to himself, having considered every 
detail over and over again, “ and nobody shall know 
it, if I can help it.” 


100 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


At this moment he heard a violent ringing of 
the bell and immediately loud talking in the ante- 
chamber. His attentive ear caught repeatedly the 
name of Forbes. He moved his lamp so that his 
face was in the shade, and sat for a few seconds in 
breathless expectation. The door of his room was 
suddenly opened, aud Forbes’s old servant en- 
tered. 

What’s the matter ? ” asked Baldwin, quietly. 

My master has been brought home dead. He 
has been murdered.” 

With an easily-feigned surprise, Baldwin sprang 
from his chair and followed the messenger of woe. 
After a few minutes’ quick walking they reached 
the house. The door was open and guarded by 
two policemen. Baldwin was shown into the bed- 
room. There on the bed lay the partly undressed 
body of the dead man. Three persons, who were 
introduced to him as the doctor, a police-officer, 
and his assistant, stood beside the corpse. The 
officer, at whose request Baldwin had been called 
in, told him in a few words what had happened. 
Two gentlemen, accompanied by a sergent de 
mile, had come to his office about three-quarters of 
an hour ago, and told him that they had found on 
the quay the body of a dead man. The corpse 
had been quickly identified by the name and ad- 
dress which was found in a pocket-book upon the 
deceased. The officer wished to know whether 
Mr. Baldwin, who had been named by the servant 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


101 


as the most intimate friend of the unfortunate 
gentleman, could give any clew to this mysterious 
affair. 

‘‘ i^o ; none whatever.” 

“ When did you see Mr. Forbes the last time ? ” 
A few hours ago. When I came home about 
nine o’clock, I met him near my house, where he 
had been to see me.” 

“ What did he say to you ? ” 

“ He did not speak to me. He did not recog- 
nize me in the dark, and walked quickly past me. 
I had seen him and spoken to him during the day. 
I had nothing particular to say to him and did not 
stop him.” 

Did he leave any message for you ? ” 

‘‘Ho, my servant would have told me if he 
had.” 

“ To whom did he speak in your house ? ” 

“ To my wife.” 

“ What did he say to her ? ” 

“ I can’t tell. I found my wife a little unwell 
when I came home, and, attending to her, I forgot 
to inquire after Mr. Forbes. He was a frequent 
guest at my house. There was nothing extraor- 
dinary in his visit.” 

Baldwin became aware that the conversation 
took the form of a judicial examination. He was 
very cautious in his answers. He resolved to re- 
ply frankly to every question, and only conceal 
what nobody but himself could know. He did not 


102 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


contradict himself once. The officer, who was far 
from suspecting him, finally closed the conversation 
by telling him that he, his wife, and the servant 
who had opened the door for Forbes, would be sum- 
moned to-morrow to appear before a police-magis- 
trate. Baldwin turned to the doctor to ask what 
had been the immediate cause of Mr. Forbes’s death. 
He listened patiently to the physician’s learned 
discourse; he showed no repugnance on looking at 
the corpse ; his whole moral energy was concen- 
trated for the moment upon not doing, saying, or 
revealing anything that might betray him. Every- 
thing else was of secondary consideration. When 
he was alone, he would think over all that hap- 
pened. He must above all escape, unsuspected, from 
the presence of the vigilant, suspicious police-of- 
ficer. He felt indistinctly that he could not cal- 
culate at this moment all the bearings of his deed, 
that mischief threatened him as the natural conse- 
quence, thatl)lood must be cleansed by blood. All 
these thoughts overwhelmed him, as yet confused, 
formless, mere phantoms of his heated imagination. 
But he fought against them; all he had to do just 
now was to cover his retreat. He heard the officer 
tell his assistant that two policemen were to re- 
main in the house, until everything had been sealed 
up. Then he turned again to Baldwin and asked 
him if he knew where the deceased was in the 
habit of keeping his money and other valuables. 
Baldwin pointed to a small safe-box, where he had 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


103 


seen Forbes put money and papers of importance. 
The box was opened and found to contain a con- 
siderable sum in bank-notes and gold. While the 
officer was counting the money, Baldwin noticed 
a sealed envelope. He took it out and read : 

“Gordon Baldwin, Esq., Paris. To be opened 
after my death.” 

“ This letter may contain some important in- 
formation or instructions,” said Baldwin to the 
officer. “ Will you allow me to open it at 
once ? ” 

The officer consented, and Baldwin read as 
follows : 

“Paris, February 26, 186-. 

“ My dear Baldwin : I have decided to put 
an end to my life, and when you read this letter I 
shall have carried out my purpose.” 

Baldwin uttered a cry of astonishment, and 
read these lines to the officer. 

“ That is very strange ; according to the doc- 
tor’s opinion, I would not have believed in your 
friend’s suicide.” 

Baldwin continued : “ I tell you this in order 
to put a stop beforehand to all false theories and 
inquiries about the cause of my death, and to beg 
you to suppress at once all unnecessary noise and 
trouble. I have never been partial to sensations, 
and my only desire is to leave this life as quietly 
and unnoticed as possible. I have taken every 
precaution to facilitate the carrying out of my 


104 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


last wishes as far as possible. My will is depos- 
ited at the American Consulate, and drawn up 
in such a way that it cannot be disputed. 

“The reason why I kill myself is very simple: 
I am weary of life. You may not consider this 
a great misfortune. You can have no idea how 
unbearable this weariness may become in time. 
‘ Tsedet tamdiu eadem fecisse.’ This is the only 
Latin phrase I know and understand. It is tire- 
some to have always done the same thing, to 
know that as long as I live I shall always have to 
do the same thing, and that this one thing is very 
stale and unprofitable. 

“ I have often regretted that, years ago, I did 
not render you the service you asked me for. I 
beg you to forgive me. See that Thomas forgives 
me too. I have never consciously done any 
wrong to your wife. Ask her to think kindly of 
me from time to time. 

“ After having said good-by to you, to your 
wife, and to my brother, I have reached the end 
of the list of those for whom I cared in this 
world. How poor I am — I, the rich man i You, 
Baldwin, were my best friend — and how little of 
a friend were you ! Thomas was my only broth- 
er : he has been dead to me for years, and I to 
him. Jane Leland — ^is your wife ! A woman who 
has married another ; a brother who is lost ; a 
friend who does .pot care for me — that was all 
that I had in this life. It was really not enough. 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


105 


‘‘I feel at this moment neither excited nor 
sad. A deep calm such as I have not known for 
a long time fills my breast. The thought that I 
can shake off the burden of life as soon as I 
please gives me new courage. A quarter of an 
hour ago, when I sat down to write this letter, it 
was my intention to kill myself to-night. Now, 
when I know I shall kill myself ; when all prep- 
arations for the last act of my life are finished ; 
when I can carry out my wish whenever I like — 
now I feel fresh courage to experiment for a few 
days more. Perhaps something new may happen. 
I can wait quietly. I have nothing to hope, 
nothing to fear. Satiated even to nausea, hope- 
less, I stand but one step removed from eternity 
— and now I have taken that step. 

George Forbes.” 

During the reading of this letter, the ofiicer 
had sealed up the money. Then he put on his 
gloves with great deliberation, remarked that it 
had grown late, and, having given his assistant 
all necessary instructions, left the house with 
Baldwin. He took his leave at the door, turned 
up his coat-collar, put his hands in his pocket, and 
trotted toward his home. 

Baldwin went down the Avenue de I’lmpera- 
trice. He stopped thoughtfully for a few mo- 
ments in front of his house ; then he rang the 
bell and entered. 


106 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


IX. 

Forbes’s last instructions were faithfully car- 
ried out. He was buried very quietly. The 
Parisian newspapers, with great discretion, only 
gave a very short account of the tragic affair. 
The inquiries of the police failed to bring to light 
any new fact. The doctors would not accept the 
idea of suicide. On the other hand, it was diffi- 
cult to believe in a crime, as a considerable sum 
of money was found upon the deceased, and no- 
body knew of Forbes having any enemy capable 
of such a deed. 

Baldwin’s servant testified that on the fatal 
evening Mr. Forbes had made a short call on 
Mrs. Baldwin, about nine o’clock. He had noticed 
nothing strange in his manner. Mrs. Baldwin 
said that, having told Forbes her husband was 
out, he had not staid long. She had noticed 
nothing peculiar in him. According to the evi- 
dence of the two gentlemen who had found the 
body, it was beyond a doubt that Forbes had 
died between 10 and 10.15 p. m. Where he spent 
the last hour of his life remained a mystery. 
Finally a policeman testified that about 10 o’clock 
he had seen an open carriage, whether a private 
carriage or a cab he could not tell, going down 
the quay at a furious rate. The doctor, the police, 
and the magistrate came to the unanimous conclu- 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


107 


sion that Forbes must have been in that carriage; 
and that, fearing the horses were running away, he 
had jumped out, and thus found his death. This ex- 
planation satisfied everybody, all further inquiries 
were discontinued, and the whole affair was soon 
as good as forgotten ; only between Gordon 
Baldwin and his wife it had arisen like a gloomy 
spectre. 

Baldwin noticed that whenever he was alone 
with his wife her looks followed him, anxiously 
and suspiciously, at every step. Even the shallow 
appearance of mutual confidence which had ex- 
isted formerly now disappeared. They lived to- 
gether in a sullen, silent mood, both with a secret 
and a suspicion in their hearts. He dared not ask 
her what had happened in her last interview with 
Forbes. The words choked him whenever he 
tried to pronounce the name of the man who had 
fallen by his hand; his old cheerfulness was gone; 
he felt that he could never regain it ; that hence- 
forth, bowed down by a heavy burden, he would 
lead a miserable life until he found rest in the 
grave. A feeling he had never known before, 
fear, overcame him. If his secret should come 
out ? If the dark deed should be brought to light ? 
He shuddered at the very thought. He would 
leave Paris, would seek occupation ; hard work 
would tire him, would give him rest and sleep, 
which he had not known since that fatal night. 
He longed to go back to Yesso, among the sim- 


108 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


pie-minded islanders, who liked and confided in 
him ; who knew nothing of what had happened 
in Paris ; who never would know it. He would 
escape the searching, hostile glances of his wife, 
which followed and tormented him. He had never 
in his life cast down his eyes before anybody, and 
now he dared not look into his wife’s face. He 
could bear it no longer. 

Immediately after Forbes’s death, Baldwin 
had written to Thomas, to inform him of the sud- 
den death of his brother, and to ask him to take 
possession of the large fortune which he had left 
him. he resolved to go to Hakodate to 

assume the management of their business in Gra- 
ham’s absence. He feared Thomas as much as 
his wife ; he pictured to himself the meeting with 
his old friend. Could he dare to look at him when 
he told him the story of his brother’s death ? In 
his mind’s eye he saw Graham’s glance affectionate- 
ly and trustfully seeking his own. Could he lie 
to those honest eyes ? He trembled at the very 
thought. No ! ten times rather Jane’s suspicion 
than Graham’s confidence. He decided to return 
to Hakodate at once. In that case he was almost 
certain to avoid his friend, who, on receiving the 
news of his brother’s death, would no doubt start 
immediately for Europe to take possession of the 
large fortune which Forbes had left him. 

He waited until it was dark ; he felt ashamed 
of taking such precautions, but he was forced to 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


109 


do so. When the lamp was on the table he seated 
himself with his back to the light, and said to 
Jane, who was sitting opposite to him, pale, silent, 
and cold : 

“ Thomas Lansdale will no doubt leave Hako- 
date immediately on receipt of my letter. One 
of us should be there to look after our interests. 
I shall shortly return to Japan. Will you go 
with me, or do you prefer staying here ? ” 

She answered his question by another. 

“ You are going to leave Paris ? ” 

“ I must.” 

“ I thought so.” 

He tried to appear surprised, and asked : 

“ What makes you think so ? ” 

She shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. 

“ What makes you think so ? ” he repeated with 
a great effort. 

‘‘Do not ask me, you know what I mean.” 

Her voice had a peculiar, tormenting sound. 
He felt humiliated, but did not dare to ask for an 
explanation. He repeated his former question : 
“ Will you come with me to J apan ? ” 

“Ho. I expect in a few days a letter from my 
aunt Alice. I have made up my mind to live with 
her for the future.” 

And had it come to this ? She knew he had no 
further power over her and would not dare to ex- 
ercise his rights. 

“ I do not understand you,” he said, gently. 


110 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


and I will not prevent you from doing what you 
like. I only know that, since I have known you, 
I have had but one wish : to make you happy.” 

He said these last words with indescribable 
sadness, and felt that his eyes filled with tears. 
How had he deserved this dreadful misery ? If 
anybody was guilty, it was Jane, whose coldness 
had aroused his suspicion, and whose half-uncon- 
scious exclamation about Forbes had excited his 
wrath. The idea that an injury had been done to 
his wife had made him furious. She above all 
should forgive, should comfort him, and she was 
the one to torment him most. He covered his face 
with his hands and wept. Since Forbes’s death 
he was a changed man; he had grown weak and 
irritable ; his old energy had left him. Jane saw 
his tears and his sufferings, yet she was not moved. 
She sat opposite him as cold and motionless as 
marble, her suspicious eyes fixed upon him. At 
last he rose and said gently : 

“You are hard and unjust, but I will not com- 
plain. The day may come when you will find 
that you have misjudged me, when you will re- 
gret that you have rejected my love. Then call 
me and I will hasten to you. Now I will go.” 

He left the room slowly. She looked after 
him without saying a word, but her mute lips 
moved and breathed the word “ Murderer ! ” 
Baldwin was sure that he had not betrayed him- 
self before his wife. She could know nothing of 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


Ill 


the bloody deed, but she imagined it. He felt 
that his rest was gone, even if she had not sus- 
pected him. Her undeserved confidence would not 
have been less intolerable than her suspicion. 
Only one thing could have reconciled him to his 
fate : to have confessed all to his wife, to have 
had her recognize his innocence, pity his misfor- 
tune, and bear it with him — then he would have 
found comfort and peace in her presence. But 
Jane’s eyes repelled all approaches. He had to 
carry alone the burden of his secret, unbearable 
as it was. 

During the following day, Baldwin settled all 
his affairs in Paris, and prepared for his departure 
without interruption from Jane either by word or 
look. She saw him come and go as if she had 
been deaf and dumb. On the evening of the sec- 
ond day after their last interview, he came to her 
room to say good-by. He had dreaded this mo- 
ment, but it passed quickly. His heart was so 
full that he hardly noticed her coldness. She did 
not offer her hand ; when he bent forward to em- 
brace her, she stepped back. 

‘^Farewell, Jane,” he said, and in a beseeching 
tone he added : I hope we shall meet again.” 

She nodded her head in silence. He lingered 
for a moment; and when he saw that her icy feat- 
ures never relaxed, he left the room. It would 
have been better for him to have stood before the 
sternest judge than before this woman, who had 


112 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


never loved him, who saw in him the cause of all 
her misfortune, who hated and dreaded him. On 
that evening when she was lying on her bed, with 
her nerves morbidly excited, she heard him leave 
the house and return. She knew that, at the time 
of Forbes’s death, he had been in the street. The 
fact that he concealed this circumstance made her 
suspicious; his despondency strengthened this im- 
pression. Their last interview, when he, the strong 
man, had wept in her presence, made her abso- 
lutely sure. He is a murderer,” she said. But 
she would not step forth as his accuser. She, too, 
had a secret to keep. It was best guarded as long 
as she was silent. A few days after Baldwin’s de- 
parture, Jane’s aunt. Mademoiselle Alice de Mon- 
temars, arrived in Paris. This lady was a shrewd 
old maid. She saw at once that she would secure 
a comfortable life for the rest of her days if she got 
on the right side of her rich niece. She spared no 
pains to make herself as agreeable and useful as 
possible; and a few weeks after Baldwin had left, 
she succeeded in persuading Jane to follow her to 
the south of France, and settle in a fashionable 
watering-place on the Mediterranean. 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


113 


X. 

Baldwin had amved in San Francisco, and 
there awaited the departure of the Pacific Mail 
steamer. He intended to go to Yokohama, where 
he would soon find an opportunity of proceeding 
to Hakodate. In Xew York and San Francisco, 
he inquired after Thomas Graham and Thomas 
Lansdale — he did not know under which name his 
friend was traveling — hut he could learn nothing 
about him. He must have gone by way of 
Suez,” said Baldwin to himself. ‘^All the bet- 
ter ; now I am sure of not meeting him.” 

His heart was heavy when he thought that 
henceforth he must shun the society of the two 
persons he loved best, J ane and Thomas. But he 
felt calmer and more courageous since he had left 
his wife. He knew she was well provided for. If 
she had loved him, she would have followed him. 
But this was not the case. She had never loved 
him. She had been false when she gave him her 
hand, when she swore to be true to him until death, 
to love and cherish him ‘‘ for better for worse.” 
His misfortune should not have estranged her. 
He had cause to be angry with her ; she had noth- 
ing to reproach him with ; he had not sinned against 
her. It was a kind of sad comfort to him to be 
able to accuse Jane in his heart, and to feel that 
he had done her no wrong. His account with her 
8 


114 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


was settled in his favor. He was her creditor and 
he forgave her her debt. — It was different with 
Thomas. He had sinned against him. He did not 
dare to look him in the face, at least not now ; 
perhaps, in years to come, he might. It was well 
that Thomas had gone to Europe by another route, 
a meeting was now impossible. 

Baldwin left San Francisco on the first of July, 
and arrived in Yokohama on the twenty-second. 
The three weeks on the great ocean had worked 
like soothing balm on his wounded heart. Though 
he was not able to cherish one cheerful thought, 
that gnawing anxiety which had tormented him 
in Paris had forsaken him. 

In Yokohama he was met by many old friends, 
who asked him what was the matter, what had 
turned his hair so gray. He replied that he had 
been ill, and quickly turned the conversation. He 
inquired after Graham. They had been without 
news from Hakodate for two months. He was 
told that the steamer Ozaka would leave in a 
few days for Hakodate, and bring back letters 
from there. 

The captain of the Ozaka agreed to take Gor- 
don as passenger ; and on the third of August he 
arrived at his destination. 

When the ship entered the harbor, numerous 
small boats with Chinese and European merchants 
rowed alongside, to receive letters and news from 
Yokohama. Baldwin recognized his own house- 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


115 


boat carrying a young Englishman of the name of 
Howell, who for many years had been book-keeper 
in his office. A few minutes later, Baldwin met 
him on the gangway. Howell was astonished to 
see his employer before him unexpectedly. He 
shook hands with him, and asked whether Mr. Bald- 
win had been ill. Baldwin gave him the same an- 
swer as he had given his friends in Yokohama, 
and asked when Mr. Graham had left Hakodate. 

“ Mr. Graham is in Hakodate ; you’ll see him 
in a quarter of an hour. A few weeks ago he 
received a letter from you, and decided to go to 
Europe ; but he changed his mind. He has writ- 
ten to you twice since ; you must have crossed 
his letters.” 

Howell busied himself with looking after his 
employer’s luggage. Baldwin had a few moments’ 
time to collect his thoughts. The meeting with 
Graham was now unavoidable. He could do 
nothing but abide the course of events. When 
he reached the quay, he was greeted by several 
Japanese, among whom he had lived for so many 
years. All asked him the same question : Have 
you been ill, Mr. Baldwin ? ” 

Graham sat reading in his room when Bald- 
win entered. He sprung from his chair with a 
cry of joy when the door opened and Gordon’s 
well-known voice called out : “How do you do, 
Thomas ? ” But he stepped back almost immedi- 
ately, and exclaimed : 


116 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


Baldwin, some misfortune has happened to 
you ! for God’s sake, tell me what it is ! ” 

Baldwin felt something in his throat which 
prevented him from answering at once. At last 
he said : 

I have had a bitter experience since I left 
you, but we will talk about that by-and-by. How 
do you happen to be here ? I thought you were 
on your way to Europe, and came to fill your 
place.” 

Thomas could not take his eyes off Baldwin. 
He looked at him with the tenderness of a mother 
whose child has been brought home ill. 

Gordon, what is the matter ? ” he asked, be- 
seechingly. I cannot be quiet until I know.” 

He took Baldwin’s hand between both his own, 
and looked at him steadily. It was the old, con- 
fiding look of which Baldwin had been afraid ! 

‘‘I have been obliged to separate from my 
wife,” he said, at last, in a low tone. 

“ My poor friend ! ” 

A long pause. Baldwin covered his face with 
both hands. 

My poor friend ! ” repeated Thomas. 

All at once Baldwin felt that, in order to ex- 
onerate himself, he must expose his wife’s name 
to suspicion. No, that must not be ! That un- 
fortunate night had cost him all his happiness. 
He did not complain. The blood that was shed 
must be expiated, but his honor, his self-respect. 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


117 


should not be sacrificed. He would not commit 
an act of cowardice, and throw the burden of his 
misfortune upon his wife. He sat down and asked, 
softly : 

“ Thomas, are you my friend ? ” 

That I am. I have nobody in this world but 
you. You may confide everything to me that 
burdens your heart, and I will do all, all I can, to 
help you ” — he paused for a moment, and added, 
solemnly — “ so help me God ! ” 

Before the window of the room where the two 
men were sitting spread the broad harbor of Hako- 
date. Heavy junks, with brown, square sails, and 
numberless fishing-boats, tossed on the dark-blue, 
white-crested waves. Baldwin looked at this grand 
picture, and, without taking his eyes off the open 
window, in a toneless voice, he told his friend the 
whole history of his misfortune. He did hot ac- 
cuse Forbes, he did not even know whether he 
had been guilty, nor did he attempt to excuse 
himself. He had been excited and angry. He 
had pushed Forbes away, and Forbes had fallen. 

I bent over him and saw him die. I see him 
before me, at this moment, dying, killed by my 
hand.” He stopped, for the first time, and looked 
anxiously into his friend’s face. Graham sat be- 
fore him, pale as death, his eyes riveted upon the 
ground. Nobody but you knows what has hap- 
pened,” continued Baldwin. “I owed a confes- 
sion to nobody but you. I have given myself 


118 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


and my secret into your hands; do with me as you 
like. If I am guilty, I will endure any punish- 
ment you may think fit ; if I am innocent, then 
acquit me, and deliver me from the torments I can 
bear no longer. I have suffered unspeakable mis- 
ery. Look at me, Thomas ; see what has become 
of me ! Have pity on me ! ” 

A long pause. 

I have nobody in this world but you,” said 
Thomas, at last. In his eyes shone the old, full 
confidence, the old affection. 

Baldwin could look at him again. As with 
Jane, his debtor, he had now settled his account 
with Graham, his creditor, and his debt was for- 
given. He drew a long breath. He was again a 
free man. 


XI. 

Jane lives alternately in the south of France 
and in Paris, a rich young widow. She has be- 
come very pious, with that cold piety which 
makes people renowned in society, and dreaded 
in the narrower circle of their friends. Her house 
is kept in exemplary order ; her servants tremble 
before her, though she never scolds. No poor 
man dares to approach her ; but the name of Mrs. 
Gordon Baldwin heads with large sums every sub- 
scription list for charitable purposes. Her gener- 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


119 


osity is as free from vanity as it is from charity. 
She makes large donations to schools, hospitals, 
asylums, and such institutions, not because she 
wishes to be mentioned or praised, but because 
she thinks it is her duty to do good, and that this 
can only be done by placing large sums at the dis- 
posal of professional philanthropists. It is im- 
possible for her to take an interest in individual 
suffering. She can only think of her own, and in 
order to lessen this she is systematically benevo- 
lent. She is not bad ; she has never done any- 
thing actually wrong, nor ever one single unself- 
ish, kind action. She cannot sympathize with 
strangers ; Nature has denied this quality. She 
certainly cannot be admired nor blamed. Kind- 
hearted people, of whom there are some in this 
word, will pity her. 

Thomas Lansdale is settled in New York. 
Hundreds of poor bless his name. No one who is 
in want of help leaves his door unrelieved. The 
last misfortune that befell him, Gordon Baldwin’s 
death, has made the tender-hearted man still more 
benevolent. He often gives to those who are un- 
worthy, but continues to do good to the best of 
his judgment. Suspicion finds no place in his 
heart. It is better to be deceived by many and 
to do good to many than to suspect all and to 
stand alone. 

Gordon Baldwin met with a hero’s death soon 
after his return to Hakodate. To save the crew 


120 


GORDON BALDWIN. 


of a stranding vessel from certain death, he swam 
through a raging sea to the shore, carrying a line. 
He was dashed against a rock and frightfully 
crushed. He lived for six hours, long enough to 
know that he had not given his life in vain, that 
the crew of the ship had been saved; long enough 
to know that Forbes’s blood had been expiated 
and atoned for. The members of the foreign 
community surrounded the house during his 
agony. The believers prayed for him fervently ; 
the unbelievers wept bitterly. Thomas Lansdale 
closed his eyes. His kind, affectionate glance, 
which Baldwin once had feared, was the last con- 
solation of the dying man. 

And now they are all well off. Forbes and 
Baldwin are dead and at peace. Two people, 
Jane and Thomas, think of them, and know that 
with them is buried all that belonged to their life 
and happiness, and that they can never be re- 
placed ; otherwise it is as if they had never lived. 
Thomas has never overcome the grief of Gordon’s 
death ; but he is not unhappy. He is deceived, 
imposed upon, even laughed at by some; by many 
he is honored and loved. Jane lives retired, alone 
in a lofty solitude, and is in a fair way to gain 
the reputation of a saint. 


THE END. 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. - 


I. 

Dueing many long years Hermann Fabricius 
had lost sight of his friend Henry Warren, and 
had forgotten him. 

Yet when students together they had loved 
each other dearly, and more than once they had 
sworn eternal friendship. This was at a period 
which, though not very remote, we seem to have 
left far behind us — a time when young men still 
believed in eternal friendship, and could feel en- 
thusiasm for great deeds or great ideas. Youth 
in the present day is, or thinks itself, more 
rational. Hermann and Warren in those days 
were simple-minded and ingenuous ; and not only 
in the moment of elation, when they had sworn 
to be friends forever, but even the next day, and 
the day after that, in sober earnestness, they had 
vowed that nothing should separate them, and 
that they would remain united through life. The 


122 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


delusion had not lasted long. The pitiless ma- 
chinery of life had caught up the young men as 
soon as .they left the university, and had thrown 
one to the right, the other to the left. For a few 
months they had exchanged long and frequent 
letters ; then they had met once, and finally they 
had parted, each going his way. Their letters had 
become more scarce, more brief, and at last had 
ceased altogether. It would really seem that the 
fact of having interests in common is the one thing 
sufficiently powerful to prolong and keep up the 
life of epistolary relations. A man may feel great 
affection for an absent friend, and yet not find 
time to write him ten lines, while he will willingly 
expend daily many hours on a stranger from whom 
he expects something. !N'one the less he may be 
a true and honest friend. Man is naturally selfish ; 
the instinct of self-preservation requires it of him. 
Provided he be not wicked, and that he show him- 
self ready to serve his neighbor — after himself — 
no one has a right to complain, or to accuse him 
of hard-heartedness. 

At the time this story begins, Hermann had 
even forgotten whether he had written to Warren 
last, or whether he had left his friend’s last letter 
unanswered. In a word, the correspondence which 
began so enthusiastically had entirely ceased. 
Hermann lived in a large town, and had ac- 
quired some reputation as a writer. From time 
to time, in the course of his walks, he would meet 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


123 


a young student with brown hair, and mild, hon- 
est-looking blue eyes, whose countenance, with its 
frank and youthful smile, inspired confidence and 
invited the sympathy of the passer-by. When- 
ever Hermann met this young man, he would say 
to himself, How like Henry at twenty ! ” and for 
a few minutes memory would travel back to the 
already distant days of youth, and he would long 
to see his dear old Warren again. More than 
once, on the spur of the moment, he had resolved 
to try and find out what had become of his old 
university comrade. But these good intentions 
were never followed up. On reaching home he 
would find his table covered with books and 
pamphlets to be reviewed, and letters from pub- 
lishers or newspaper editors asking for “ copy ” — 
to say nothing of invitations to dinner, which must 
be accepted or refused ; in a word, he found so 
much urgent business to dispatch that the evening 
would go by, and weariness would overtake him, 
before he could make time for inquiring about his 
old friend. 

In the course of years, the life of most men 
becomes so regulated that no time is left for any- 
thing beyond “necessary work.” But, indeed, 
the man who lives only for his own pleasure — do- 
ing, so to speak, nothing — is rarely better in this 
respect than the writer, the banker, and the savant, 
who are overburdened with work. 

One afternoon, as Hermann, according to his 


124 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


custom, was returning home about five o’clock, 
his porter handed him a letter bearing the Amer- 
ican post-mark. He examined it closely before 
opening it. The large and rather stiff handwrit- 
ing on the address seemed familiar, and yet he 
could not say to whom it belonged. Suddenly 
his countenance brightened, and he exclaimed, 
A letter from Henry ! ” He tore open the en- 
velope, and read as follows : 

“ My dear Hermann : It is fortunate that one 
of us, at least, should have attained celebrity. I 
saw your name on the outside of a book of which 
you are the author. I wrote at once to the pub- 
lisher ; that obliging man answered me by return 
of post, and, thanks to these circumstances, I am 
enabled to tell you that I will land at Hamburg 
toward the end of September. Write to me there, 
Poste Pestante, and let me know if you are willing 
to receive me for a few days. I can take Leipsic 
on my way home, and would do so most willingly 
if you say that you would see me again with 
pleasure. — Your old friend, 

“Henry Warren.” 

Below the signature there was a postscript of 
a single line : “ This is my present face.” And 
from an inner envelope Hermann drew a small 
photograph, which he carried to the window to 
examine leisurely. As he looked, a painful im- 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


125 


pression of sadness came over him. The portrait 
was that of an old man. Long gray hair fell in 
disorder over a careworn brow ; the eyes, deep 
sunk in their sockets, had a strange and disquiet- 
ing look of fixity ; and the mouth, surrounded by 
deep furrows, seemed to tell its own long tale of 
sorrow. 

“ Poor Henry ! ” said Hermann ; this, then, 
is your present face ! And yet he is not old ; he 
is younger than I am ; he can scarcely be thirty- 
eight. Can I, too, be already an old man 

He walked up to the glass, and looked atten- 
tively at the reflection of his own face. Ho ! 
those were not the features of a man whose life 
was near its close ; the eye was bright, and the 
complexion indicated vigor and health. Still, it 
was not a young face. Thought and care had 
traced their furrows round the mouth and about 
the temples, and the general expression was one 
of melancholy, not to say despondency. 

^‘Well, well, we have grown old,” said Her- 
mann, with a sigh. I had not thought about it 
this long while ; and now this photograph has re- 
minded me of it painfully.” Then he took up his 
pen and wrote to say how happy he would be to 
see his old friend again as soon as possible. 

The next day, chance brought him face to face 
in the street with the young student who was so 
like W arren. Who knows ? ” thought Hermann ; 
‘^fifteen or twenty years hence this young man 


126 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


may look no brighter than Warren does to-day. 
Ah, life is not easy ! It has a way of saddening 
joyous looks, and imparting severity to smiling 
lips. As for me, I have no real right to complain 
of my life. I have lived pretty much like every- 
body ; a little satisfaction, and then a little disap- 
pointment, turn by turn ; and often small wor- 
ries : and so my youth has gone by, I scarcely 
know how.” 

On the 2d of October Hermann received a tele- 
gram from Hamburg, announcing the arrival of 
Warren for the same evening. At the appointed 
hour he went to the railway-station to meet his 
friend. He saw him get down from the carriage 
slowly, and rather heavily, and he watched him 
for a few seconds before accosting him. Warren 
appeared to him old and broken-down, and even 
more feeble than he had expected to see liim from 
his portrait. We wore a traveling-suit of gray 
cloth, so loose and wide that it hung in folds on 
the gaunt and stooping figure ; a large wide-awake 
hat was drawn down to his very eyes. The new- 
comer looked right and left, seeking no doubt to 
discover his friend — not seeing him, he turned 
his weary and languid steps toward the way out. 
Hermann then came forward. Warren recog- 
nized him at once ; a sunny, youthful smile light- 
ed up his countenance, and, evidently much 
moved, he stretched out his hand. An hour later, 
the two friends were seated opposite each other 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


127 


before a well-spread table in Hermann’s comfort- 
able apartments. 

Warren ate very little ; but, on the other hand, 
Hermann noticed, with surprise and some anxiety, 
that his friend, who had been formerly a model 
of sobriety, drank a good deal. Wine, however, 
seemed to have no effect on him. The pale face 
did not flush ; there was the same cold, fixed look 
in the eye ; and his speech, though slow and dull 
in tone, betrayed no embarrassment. 

When the servant who had waited at dinner 
had taken away the dessert and brought in coffee, 
Hermann wheeled two big arm-chairs close to the 
fire, and said to his friend : 

‘^Now, we will not be interrupted. Light a 
cigar, make yourself at home, and tell me all you 
have been doing since we parted.” 

Warren pushed away the cigars. “If you do 
not mind,” said he, “ I will smoke my pipe. I am 
used to it, and I prefer it to the best of cigars.” 

So saying, he drew from its well-worn case an 
old pipe, whose color showed it had been long 
used, and filled it methodically with moist, black- 
ish tobacco. Then he lighted it, and, after sending 
forth one or two loud puffs of smoke, he said, with 
an air of sovereign satisfaction : 

“A quiet, comfortable room — a friend — a good 
pipe after dinner — and no care for the morrow. 
That’s what I like.” 

Hermann cast a sidelong glance at his compan- 


128 


THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 


ion, and was painfully struck at his appearance. 
The tall, gaunt frame in its stooping attitude ; the 
grayish hair, and sad, fixed look ; the thin legs, 
crossed one over the other ; the elbow resting on 
the knee and supporting the chin — in a word, the 
whole strange figure, as it sat there — ^bore no re- 
semblance to Henry Warren, the friend of his 
youth. This man was a stranger — a mysterious 
being, even. Nevertheless, the affection he felt 
for his friend was not impaired ; on the contrary, 
pity entered into his heart. ‘‘How ill the world 
must have used him,” thought Hermann, “ to have 
thus disfigured him ! ” Then he said aloud ; 

“ Now, then, let me have your story, unless 
you prefer to hear mine first.” 

He strove to speak lightly, but he felt that the 
effort was not successful. As to Warren, he went 
on smoking quietly, without saying a word. The 
long silence at last became painful. Hermann be- 
gan to feel an uncomfortable sensation of distress 
in presence of the strange guest he had brought 
to his home. After a few minutes he ventured 
to ask for the third time, “ Will you make up your 
mind to speak, or must I begin ? ” 

Warren gave vent to a little, noiseless laugh. 
“ I am thinking how I can answer your question. 
The difficulty is that, to speak truly, I have abso- 
lutely nothing to tell. I wonder now — and it was 
that made me pause — how it has happened that, 
throughout my life, I have been bored by — noth- 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


129 


ing. As if it would not have been quite as natural, 
quite as easy, and far pleasanter, to have been 
amused by that same nothing — which has been 
my life. The fact is, my dear fellow, that I have 
had no deep sorrow to bear, neither have I been 
happy. I have not been extraordinarily success- 
ful, and have drawn none of the prizes of life. 
But I am well aware that, in this respect, my lot 
resembles that of thousands of other men. I have 
always been obliged to work. I have earned my 
bread by the sweat of my brow. I have had 
money difficulties ; I have even had a hopeless 
passion — but what then ? — every one has had that. 
Besides, that was in by-gone days ; I have learned 
to bear it, and to forget. What pains and angers 
me is, to have to confess that my life has been 
spent without satisfaction and without happiness.” 

He paused an instant, and then resumed, more 
calmly : A few years ago I was foolish enough 
to believe that things might in the end turn out 
better. I was a professor, with a very moderate 
salary, at the school at Elmira. I taught all I 
knew, and much that I had to learn in order to 
be able to teach it — Greek and Latin, German and 
French, mathematics and physical sciences. Dur- 
ing the so-called play -hours I even gave music-les- 
sons. In the course of the whole day there were few 
moments of liberty for me. I was perpetually sur- 
rounded by a crowd of rough, ill-bred boys, whose 
only object during lessons was to catch me making 
9 


130 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


a fault in Englisli. When evening came, I was 
quite worn out ; still, I could always find time to 
dream for half an hour or so with my eyes open 
before going to bed. Then all my desires were 
accomplished, and I was supremely happy. At 
last I had drawn a prize ! I was successful in 
everything ; I was rich, honored, powerful — what 
more can I say? I astonished the world — or, 
rather, I astonished Ellen Gilmore, who, for me, 
was the whole world. Hermann, have you ever 
been as mad ? Have you, too, in a waking dream, 
been in turn a statesman, a millionaire, the author 
of a sublime work, a victorious general, the head 
of a, great political party? Have you dreamed 
nonsense such as that? I, who am here, have 
been all I say — in dreamland. Never mind, that 
was a good time. Ellen Gilmore, whom I have 
just mentioned, was the elder sister of one of my 
pupils, Francis Gilmore, the most undisciplined 
boy of the school. His parents, nevertheless, in- 
sisted on his learning something ; and as I had the 
reputation of possessing unwearying patience, I 
was selected to give him private lessons. That 
was how I obtained a footing in the Gilmore fam- 
ily. Later on, when they had found out that I 
was somewhat of a musician — you may remember, 
perhaps, that for an amateur I was a tolerable 
performer on the piano — I went every day to the 
house to teach Latin and Greek to Francis and 
music to Ellen. 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


131 


picture to yourself the situation, and 
then laugh at your friend as he has laughed at 
himself many a time. On the one side — the Gil- 
more side — a large fortune and no lack of pride ; 
an intelligent, shrewd, and practical father ; an 
ambitious and vain mother ; an affectionate but 
spoiled boy ; and a girl of nineteen, surpassingly 
lovely, with a cultivated mind and great good 
sense. On the other hand, you have Henry War- 
ren, aged twenty-nine ; in his dreams the author 
of a famous work, or the commander-in-chief of 
the Northern armies, or, it may be. President of 
the Republic — in reality, professor at Elmira Col- 
lege, with a modest stipend of seventy dollars a 
month. Was it not evident that the absurdity of 
my position as a suitor for Ellen would strike me 
at once ? Of course it did. In my lucid moments, 
when I was not dreaming, I was a very rational 
man, who had read a good deal, and learned not a 
little ; and it would have been sheer madness in 
me to have indulged for an instant the hope of 
a marriage between Ellen and myself. I knew it 
was an utter impossibility — as impossible as to be 
elected President of the United States ; and yet, 
in spite of myself, I dreamed of it. However, I 
must do myself the justice to add that my passion 
inconvenienced nobody. I would no more have 
spoken of it than of my imaginary command of 
the Army of the Potomac. The pleasures which 
my love afforded me could give umbrage to no 


132 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


one. Yet I am convinced that Ellen read my 
secret. Not that she ever said a word to me on 
the subject ; no look or syllable of hers could 
have made me suspect that she had guessed the 
state of my mind. 

“ One single incident I remember which was 
not in accordance with her habitual reserve in this 
respect. I noticed one day that her eyes were red. 
Of course, I dared not ask her why she had cried. 
During the lesson she seemed absent ; and when 
leaving she said, without looking at me : ‘ I may, 
perhaps, be obliged to interrupt our lessons for 
some little time ; I am very sorry. I wish you 
every happiness.’ Then, without raising her eyes, 
she quickly left the room. I was bewildered. 
What could her words mean? And why had 
they been said in such an affectionate tone ? 

“ The next day Francis Gilmore called to in- 
form me, with his father’s compliments, that he 
was to have four days’ holidays, because his sister 
had just been betrothed to Mr. Howard, a wealthy 
New York merchant, and that, for the occasion, 
there would be great festivities at home. 

‘‘Thenceforward there was an end of the 
dreams which up to that moment had made life 
pleasant. In sober reason I had no more cause 
to deplore Ellen’s marriage than to feel aggrieved 
because Grant had succeeded Johnson as President. 
Nevertheless, you can scarcely conceive how much 
this affair — I mean the marriage — ^grieved me. 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


133 


My absolute nothingness suddenly stared me in 
the face. I saw myself as I was — a mere school- 
master, with no motive for pride in the past, or 
pleasure in the present, or hope in the future.” 

Warren’s pipe had gone out while he was tell- 
ing his story. He cleaned it out methodically, 
drew from his pocket a cake of Cavendish tobacco, 
and, after cutting off with a penknife the neces- 
sary quantity, refilled his pipe and lit it. The 
way in which he performed all these little opera- 
tions betrayed long habit. He had ceased to speak 
while he was relighting his pipe, and kept on 
whistling between his teeth. Hermann looked on 
silently. After a few minutes, and when the pipe 
was in good order, Warren resumed his story ; 

“ For a few weeks I was terribly miserable ; 
not so much because I had lost Ellen— a man can- 
not lose what he has never hoped to possess — as 
from the ruin of all my illusions. During those 
days I plucked and ate by the dozen of the fruits 
of the tree of self-knowledge, and I found them 
very bitter. I ended by leaving Elmira, to seek 
my fortunes elsewhere. I knew my trade well. 
Long practice had taught me how to make the 
best of my learning, and I never had any difficulty 
in finding employment. I taught successively in 
upward of a dozen States of the Union. I can 
scarcely recollect the names of all the places 
where I have lived — Sacramento, Chicago, St. 
Louis, Cincinnati, Boston, New York ; I have 


134 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


been everywhere — everywhere. And everywhere 
I have met with the same rude schoolboys, just 
as I have found the same regular and irregular 
verbs in Latin and Greek. If you would see a 
man thoroughly satiated and saturated with 
schoolboys and classical grammars, look at me. 

‘‘In the leisure time which, whatever might 
be my work, I still contrived to make for myself, 
I indulged in philosophical reflections. Then it 
was I took the habit of smoking so much.” 

Warren stopped suddenly, and, looking straight 
before him, appeared plunged in thought. Then, 
passing his hand over his forehead, he repeated, 
in an absent manner : “Yes, of smoking so much. 
I also took another habit,” he added, somewhat 
hastily — “but that has nothing to do with my 
story. The theory which especially occupied my 
thoughts was that of the oscillations of an ideal 
instrument of my own imagining, to which, in 
my own mind, I gave the name of the Philoso- 
pher's Pendulum, To this invention I owe the 
quietude of mind which has supported me for 
many years, and which, as you see, I now enjoy. 
I said to myself that my great sorrow — if I may 
so call it without presumption — ^had arisen merely 
from my wish to be extraordinarily happy. When, 
in his dreams, a man has carried presumption so 
far as to attain to the heights of celebrity, or to 
being the husband of Ellen Gilmore, there was 
nothing wonderful, if, on awaking, he sustained a 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


135 


heavy fall before reaching the depths of reality. 
Had I been less ambitious in my desires, their re- 
alization would have been easier, or, at any rate, 
the disappointment would have been less bitter. 
Starting from this principle, I arrived at the logi- 
cal conclusion that the best means to avoid being 
unhappy is to wish for as little happiness as pos- 
sible. This truth was discovered by my philosoph- 
ical forefathers many centuries before the birth of 
Christ, and I lay no claim to being the finder of it; 
but the outward symbol which I ended by giving 
to this idea is — at least, I fancy it is — of my in- 
vention. 

“ Give me a sheet of paper and a pencil,” he 
added, turning to his friend, ‘‘and with a few 
lines I can demonstrate clearly the whole thing.” 

Hermann handed him what he wanted without 
a word. Warren then began gravely to draw a 
large semicircle, open at the top, and above the 
semicircular line a pendulum, which fell perpen- 
dicularly, and touched the circumference at the 
exact point where on the dial of a clock would be 
inscribed the figure YI. This done, he wrote on 
the right-hand side of the pendulum, beginning 
from the bottom and at the place of the hours Y, 
lY, III, the words, Moderate Desires — Great 
Mopes, Armhition — Unbridled Passion, Mania of 
Greatness, Then, turning the paper upside-down, 
he wrote on the opposite side, where on a dial 
would be marked YII, YIII, IX, the words. Slight 


136 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


Troubles — Deep Sorrow , Disappointment — De- 
spair, Lastly, in the place of No. VI, just where 
the pendulum fell, he sketched a large black spot, 
which he shaded off with great care, and above 
which he wrote, like a scroll. Dead Stop^ Abso- 
lute Repose, 

Having finished this little drawing, Warren 
laid down his pipe, inclined his head on one side, 
and, raising his eyebrows, examined his work with 
a critical frown. “ This compass is not yet quite 
complete,” he said ; there is something miss- 
ing. Between Dead Stop and Moderate Desires 
on the right, and Slight Troubles on the left, 
there is the beautiful line of Calm and Rational 
Indifference, However, such as the drawing is, 
it is sufficient to demonstrate my theory. Do you 
follow me ? ” 

Hermann nodded affirmatively. He was great- 
ly pained. In lieu of the friend of his youth, for 
whom he had hoped a brilliant future, here was 
a poor monomaniac ! 

‘^Tou see,” said Warren, speaking collectedly, 
like a professor, “ if I raise my pendulum till it 
reaches the point of Moderate Desires^ and then 
let it go, it will naturally swing to the point of 
Slight Troubles^ and go no farther. Then it will 
oscillate for some time in a more and more limited 
space on the line of Indifference^ and finally it 
will stand still without any jerk on Dead Stop^ 
Absolute Repose, That is a great consolation ! ” 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


137 


He paused, as if waiting for some remark from 
Hermann ; but, as tbe latter remained silent, 
Warren resumed his demonstration. 

“You understand now, I suppose, what I am 
coming to. If I raise the pendulum to the point 
of Ambition or Mania of Greatness^ and then let 
it go, that same law which I have already applied 
will drive it to Deep Sorrow or Despair, That 
is quite clear, is it not ? ” 

“ Quite clear,” repeated Hermann, sadly. 

“Very well,” continued Warren, with perfect 
gravity ; “ for my misfortune, I discovered this 
fine theory rather late. I had not set bounds to 
my dreams and limited them to trifles. I had 
wished to be President of the Republic, an illus- 
trious savant^ the husband of Ellen. ^N'o great 
things, eh ? What say you to my modesty ? I 
had raised the pendulum to such a giddy height 
that when it slipped from my impotent hands it 
naturally performed a long oscillation, and touched 
the point Despair, That was a miserable time. 
I hope you have never suffered what I suffered 
then. I lived in a perpetual nightmare — like the 
stupor of intoxication.” He paused, as he had 
done before, and then, with a painfully nervous 
laugh, he added : “ Yes, like intoxication. I 
drank.” Suddenly a spasm seemed to pass over 
his face ; he looked serious and sad as before, and 
he said, with a shudder, “ It’s a terrible thing to 
see one’s self inwardly, and to know that one is 
fallen ! ” 


138 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


After this he remained long silent. At last, 
raising his head, he turned to his friend and said, 
‘‘ Have you had enough of my story, or would 
you like to hear it to the end ? ” 

“ I am grieved at all you have told me,” said 
Hermann. But pray go on ; it is better I should 
know all.” 

“ Yes ; and I feel, too, that it relieves me to 
pour out my heart. Well, I used to drink. One 
takes the horrid habit in America far easier than 
anywhere else. I was obliged to give up more 
than one good situation because I had ceased to 
be respectable. Anyhow, I always managed to 
find employment without any great difficulty. I 
never suffered from want, though I have never 
known plenty. If I spent too much in drink, I 
took it out of my dress and my boots. 

“ Eighteen months after I had left Elmira, I 
met Ellen one day in Central Park, in New York. 
I was aware that she had been married a twelve- 
month. She knew me again at once, and spoke 
to me. I would have wished to sink into the 
earth. I knew that my clothes were shabby, that 
I looked poor, and I fancied that she must discern 
on my face the traces of the bad habits I had* 
contracted. But she did not, or would not, see 
anything. She held out her hand, and said, in 
her gentle voice : 

‘ I am very glad to see you again, Mr. War- 
ren. I have inquired about you, but neither my 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


139 


father nor Francis could tell me what had become 
of you. I want to ask you to resume the lessons 
you used to give me. Perhaps you do not know 
where I live ? This is my address,’ and she gave 
me her card. 

‘‘ I stammered out a few unmeaning words in 
reply to her invitation. She looked at me, smil- 
ing kindly the while ; but suddenly the smile 
vanished, and she added : ‘ Have you been ill, Mr. 
Warren ? You seem worn.’ 

‘ Yes,’ I answered, too glad to find an excuse 
for my appearance — ^yes, I have been ill, and I 
am still suffering.’ 

“ ^ I am very sorry,’ she said, in a low 
voice. 

Laugh at me, Hermann — call me an incor- 
rigible madman ; but believe me when I say that 
her looks conveyed to me the impression of more 
than common interest or civility. A thrilling 
sense of pain shot through my frame. What had 
I done that I should be so cruelly tried ? A mist 
passed before my eyes ; anxiety, intemperance, 
sleeplessness, had made me weak. I tottered 
backward a few steps. She turned horribly pale. 
All around us was the crowd — the careless, indif- 
ferent crowd. 

‘‘ ‘ Come and see me soon,’ she added, hastily, 
and left me. I saw her get into a carriage, which 
she had doubtless quitted to take a walk ; and, 
when she drove past, she put her head out and 


140 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


looked at me with her eyes wide open — there was 
an almost wildly anxious expression in them. 

“I went home. My way led me past her 
house — it was a palace. I shut myself up in my 
wretched hotel-room, and once more I fell to 
dreaming. Ellen loved me ; she admired me ; 
she was not forever lost to me ! The pendulum 
was swinging, you see, up as high as Madness^ 
Explain to me, if you can, how it happens that a 
being perfectly rational in ordinary life should at 
certain seasons, and, so to speak, voluntarily, be 
bereft of reason. To excuse and explain my tem- 
porary insanity, I am ready to admit that the ex- 
citement to which I gave way may have been a 
symptom of the nervous malady which laid hold 
of me a few days later, and stretched me for 
weeks upon a bed of pain. 

“As I became convalescent, reason and com- 
posure returned. But it was too late. In the 
space of two months, twenty years had passed 
over my head. When I rose from my sick-bed I 
was as feeble and as broken-down as you see me 
now. My past had been cheerless and dim, with- 
out one ray of happiness ; yet that past was all 
my life ! Henceforward there was nothing left 
for me to undertake, to regret, or to desire. The 
pendulum swung idly backward and forward on 
the line of Indifference, I wonder what are the 
feelings of successful men — of men who have 
been victorious generals, prime-ministers, ccle- 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


141 


brated authors, and that sort of thing ! Upheld 
by a legitimate pride, do they retire satisfied 
from the lists when evening comes, or do they 
lay down their arms as I did, disappointed and 
dejected, and worn out with the fierce struggle ? 
Can no man with impunity look into his own 
heart and ask himself how his life has been 
spent ? ” 

Here Warren made a still longer pause than 
before, and appeared absorbed in gloomy thought. 
At last he resumed in a lower tone : 

I had not followed up Ellen’s invitation. But 
in some way she had discovered my address, and 
knew of my illness. Do not be alarmed, my dear 
Hermann; my story will not become romantic. No 
heavenly vision appeared to me during my fever ; 
I felt no gentle, white hands laid on my burning 
brow. I was nursed at the hospital, and very well 
nursed, too ; I figured there as ‘ Number 380,’ and 
the whole affair was, as you see, as prosaic as pos- 
sible. But on quitting the hospital, and as I was 
taking leave of the manager, he handed me a let- 
ter, in which was inclosed a note for five hundred 
dollars. In the envelope there was also the fol- 
lowing anonymous note : 

“ ‘ An old friend begs your acceptance, as a 
loan, of the inclosed sum. It will be time enough 
to think of paying off this debt when you are 
strong enough to resume work, and you can then 
do it by installments, of which you can yourself 


142 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


fix tlie amount, and remit them to the hospital of 
New York.’ 

It was well meant, no doubt, but it caused 
me a painful impression. My determination was 
taken at once. I refused without hesitation. I 
asked the manager, who had been watching me 
with a friendly smile while I read the letter, 
whether he could give the name of the person 
who had sent it. In spite of his repeated assur- 
ances that he did not know it, I never doubted 
for a single instant that he was concealing the 
truth. After a few seconds’ reflection, I asked 
if he would undertake to forward an answer to 
my unknown correspondent ; and, on his consent- 
ing to do so, I promised that he should have my 
answer the next day. 

“ I thought long over my letter. One thing 
was plain to me — it was Ellen who had come to 
my help. How could I reject her generous aid 
without wounding her, or appearing ungrateful ? 
After great hesitation, I wrote a few lines, which, 
as far as I can recollect, ran thus : 

‘‘ ^ I thank you for the interest you have shown 
me, but it is impossible for me to accept the sum 
you place at my disposal. Do not be angry with 
me because I return it. Do not withdraw your 
sympathy ; I will strive to rema-in worthy of it, 
and will never forget your goodness.’ 

A few days later, after having confided this 
letter to the manager, I left New York for San 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


143 


Francisco. For several years I heard nothing of 
Ellen ; her image grew gradually fainter, and at 
last almost disappeared from my memory. 

The dark river that bore the frail bark which 
carried me and my fortunes was carrying me 
smoothly and unconsciously along toward the 
mysterious abyss where all that exists is ingulfed. 
Its course lay through a vast desert ; and the 
banks which passed before my eyes were of fear- 
ful sameness. Indescribable lassitude took pos- 
session of my whole being. I had never, know- 
ingly, practised evil ; I had loved and sought 
after good. Why, then, was I so wretched ? I 
would have blessed the rock which wrecked my 
bark, so that I might have been swallowed up and 
have gone down to my eternal rest. Up to the 
day when I heard of Ellen’s betrothal, I had 
hoped that the morrow would bring happiness. 
The long-wished-for morrow had come at last, 
gloomy and colorless, without realizing any of 
my vague hopes. Henceforward my life was at 
an end.” 

Warren said these last words so indistinctly 
that Hermann could scarcely hear them ; he 
seemed to be speaking to himself rather than to 
his friend. Then he raised the forefinger of his 
right hand, and after moving it slowly from right 
to left, in imitation of the swing of a pendulum, 
he placed it on the large black dot he had drawn 
on the sheet of paper exactly below his pendulum. 


144 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


and said : “ Dead Stop^ Absolute Repose. Would 
that the end were come !.” 

Another and still longer interval of silence 
succeeded, and at last Hermann felt constrained 
to speak. 

How came you to make up your mind,” he 
said, to return to Europe ? ” 

Ah ! yes, to he sure,” answered Warren, hur- 
riedly ; “ the story — the foolish story — is not end- 
ed. In truth it has no end, as it had no beginning ; 
it is a thing without form or purpose, and less the 
history of a life than of a mere journeying toward 
death. Still I will finish — following chronologi- 
cal order. It does not weary you ? ” 

‘‘No, no ; go on, my dear friend.” 

“Very well. I spent several years in the 
United States. The pendulum worked well. It 
came and went, to and fro, slowly along the line 
of Indifference^ without ever transgressing, as its 
extreme limits on either hand. Moderate Desires 
and Slight Troubles. I led obscurely a contem- 
plative life, and I was generally considered a queer 
character. I fulfilled my duties, and took little 
heed of any one. Whenever I had an hour at my 
disposal, I sought solitude in the neighboring 
woods, far from the town and from mankind. I 
used to lie down under the big trees. Every sea- 
son in turn, spring and summer, autumn and win- 
ter, had its peculiar charm for me. My heart, so 
full of bitterness, felt lightened as soon as I lis- 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


145 


tened to the rustling of the foliage overhead. The 
forest ! There is nothing finer in all creation. A 
deep calm seemed to settle down upon me. I was 
growing old. I was forgetting. It was about this 
time that, in consequence of my complete indiffer- 
ence to all surroundings, I acquired the habit of 
answering ‘Very well ’ to everything that was said. 
The words came so naturally that I was not aware 
of my continual use of them, until one day one of 
my fellow-teachers happened to tell me that mas- 
ters and pupils alike had given me the nickname 
of ‘Very well.’ Is it not odd that one who has 
never succeeded in anything should be known as 
‘Very well?’ 

“ I have only one other little adventure to re- 
late, and I shall have told all. Then I can listen 
to your story. 

Last year, my journeyings brought me to the 
neighborhood of Elmira. It was holiday-time. I 
had nothing to do, and I had in my purse a hun- 
dred hardly-earned dollars, or thereabout. The 
wish seized me to revisit the scene of my joys and 
my sorrows. I had not set foot in the place for 
more than seven years. I was so changed that 
nobody could know me again ; nor would I have 
cared much if they had. After visiting the town 
and looking at my old school, and the house where 
Ellen had lived, I bent my steps toward the park, 
which is situated in the environs — a place where I 
used often to walk, in company of my youthful 
10 


146 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


dreams. It was September, and evening was clos- 
ing in. The oblique rays of the setting sun sent 
a reddish gleam through the leafy branches of the 
old oaks. I saw a woman seated on a bench be- 
neath a tree, on one side of the path. As I drew 
near I recognized Ellen. I remained rooted to the 
spot where I stood, not daring to move a step. 
She was stooping forward with her head bent 
down, while with the end of her parasol she traced 
lines upon the gravel. She had not seen me. I 
turned back instantly, and retired without making 
any noise. When I had gone a little distance, I 
left the path and struck into the wood. Once 
there, I looked back cautiously. Ellen was still at 
the same place, and in the same attitude. Heaven 
knows what thoughts passed through my brain ! 
I longed to see her closer. What danger was 
there ? I was sure she would not know me again. 
I walked toward her with the careless step of a 
casual passer-by, and in a few minutes passed be- 
fore her. When my shadow fell on the path, she 
looked up, and our eyes met. My heart was beat- 
ing fast. Her look was cold and indifferent ; but 
suddenly a strange light shot into her eyes, and 
she made a quick movement, as if to rise. I saw 
no more, and went on without turning round. Be- 
fore I could get out of the park, her carriage drove 
past me, and I saw her once more, as I had seen 
her five years before in Central Park, pale, with 
distended eyes, and her anxious looks fixed upon 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. I47 


me. Why did I not bow to her ? I cannot say ; 
my courage failed me. I saw the light die out of 
her eyes. I almost fancied that I saw her heave 
a sigh of relief, as she threw herself back careless- 
ly in the carriage ; and she disappeared. I was 
then thirty-six, and I am almost ashamed to relate 
the schoolboy’s trick of which I was guilty. I sent 
her the following lines : ‘ A devoted friend, whom 
you obliged in former days, and who met you yes- 
terday in the park, without your recognizing him, 
sends you his remembrances.’ I posted this letter 
a few minutes before getting into the train, which 
was to take me to New York ; and, as I did so, 
my heart beat as violently as though I had per- 
formed an heroic deed. Great adventures, for- 
sooth ! And to think that my life presents none 
more striking, and that trifles such as these are the 
only food for my memory ! 

‘‘ A twelvemonth later, I met Francis Gilmore 
in Broadway. The world is small — so small that 
it is really difficult to keep out of the way of peo- 
ple one has once known. The likeness of my 
former pupil to his sister struck me, and I spoke 
to him. He looked at me at first with a puz- 
zled expression, but, after a few moments of hesi- 
tation, he recognized me, a bright smile light- 
ed up his pleasant face, and he shook hands 
warmly. 

“ ‘Mr. Warren,’ he exclaimed, ‘ how glad I, am 
to see you ! Ellen and I have often talked of you. 


148 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


and wondered what could have become of you. 
Why did we never hear from you ? ’ 

“ ‘ I did not suppose it would interest you.’ I 
spoke timidly ; and yet I owed nothing to the 
young fellow, and wanted nothing of him. 

“ ^ You wrong us by saying that,’ replied Fran- 
cis ; ‘ do you think me ungrateful ? Do you fancy 
I have forgotten our pleasant walks in former days, 
and the long conversations we used to have ? You 
alone ever taught me anything, and it is to you I 
owe the principles that have guided me through 
life. Many a day I have thought of you, and re- 
gretted you sincerely. As regards Ellen, no one 
has ever filled your place with her ; she plays, to 
this day, the same pieces of music you taught her, 
and follows all your directions with a fidelity that 
would touch you.’ 

‘‘ ‘ How are your father and mother, and how 
is your sister?’ I inquired, feeling more deeply 
moved than I can express. 

“ ‘ My poor mother died three years ago. It 
is Ellen who keeps house now.’ 

‘ Your brother-in-law lives with you, then ? ’ 
“ ‘ My brother-in-law ! ’ replied Francis, with 
surprise ; ^ did you not know that he was on board 
the Atlantic, which was lost last year in the pas- 
sage from Liverpool to New York?’ 

I could find no words to reply. 

“ ‘ As to that,’ added Francis, with great com- 
posure, ‘between you and me, he was no great 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


149 


loss. My dear brother-in-law was not, by any 
means, what my father fancied he was when he 
gave him my sister as a wife. The whole family 
has often regretted the marriage. Ellen lived 
apart from her husband for many years before 
his death.’ 

I nodded, so as to express my interest in his 
communications, but I could not for worlds have 
uttered a syllable. 

‘‘ ‘ You will come and see us soon, I hope,’ add- 
ed Francis, without noticing any emotion. ‘We 
are still at the same place ; but, to make sure, here 
is my card. Come, Mr. Warren — name your own 
day to come and dine with us. I promise you a 
hearty welcome.’ 

“ I got off by promising to write the next day, 
and we parted. 

“ Fortunately, my mind had lost its former live- 
liness. The pendulum, far from being urged to 
unruly motion, continued to swing slowly in the 
narrow space where it had oscillated for so many 
years. I said to myself that to renew my intima- 
cy with the Gilmores would be to run the almost 
certain risk of reviving the sorrows and the dis- 
appointments of the past. I was then calm and 
rational. It would be madness in me, I felt, to 
aspire to the hand of a young, wealthy, and much- 
admired widow. To venture to see Ellen again, 
was to incur the risk of seeing my reason once 
more wrecked, and the fatal chimera which had 


150 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


been the source of all my misery start into life 
again. If we are to believe what poets say, love 
ennobles man and exalts him into a demi-god. It 
may be so, but it turns him likewise into a fool 
and a madman. That was my case. At any cost 
I was to guard against that fatal passion. I ar- 
gued seriously with myself, and I determined to 
let the past be, and to reject every opportunity of 
bringing it to life again. 

“ A few days before my meeting with Francis, 
I had received tidings of the death of an old rela- 
tive, whom I scarcely knew. In my childhood I 
had, on one or two occasions, spent my holidays 
at his house. He was gloomy and taciturn, but 
nevertheless he had always welcomed me kindly. 
I have a vague remembrance of having been told 
that he had been in love with my mother once upon 
a time, and that, on hearing of her marriage, he 
had retired into the solitude which he never left 
till the day of his death. Be that as it may, I had 
not lost my place in his affections, it seems : he 
had continued to feel an interest in me ; and on 
his death-bed he had remembered me, and left me 
the greater part of his not very considerable for- 
tune. I inherited little money ; but there was a 
small, comfortably-furnished country-house, and 
an adjoining farm let on a long lease for two hun- 
dred and forty pounds per annum. This was 
wealth for me, and more than enough to satisfy 
all my wants. Since I had heard of this legacy I 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


151 


had been doubtful as to my movements. My 
chance meeting with Francis settled the matter. 
I resolved at once to leave America, and to return 
to live in my native country. I knew your ad- 
dress, and wrote to you at once. I trusted that 
the sight of my old and only friend would con- 
sole me for the disappointments that life has in- 
flicted on me — and I have not been deceived. At 
last I have been able to open my heart to a fellow- 
creature, and relieve myself of the heavy burden 
which I have borne alone ever since our separation. 
]^ow I feel lighter. You are not a severe judge. 
Doubtless you deplore my weakness, but you do 
not condemn me. If, as I have already said, I 
have done no good, neither have I committed any 
wicked action. I have been a nonentity — an ut- 
terly useless being — ‘ one too many,’ like the sad 
hero of Turgeneff’s sad story. Before leaving, I 
wrote to Francis, informing him that the death 
of a relative obliged me to return to Europe, and 
giving him your address, so as not to seem to be 
running away from him. Then I went on board, 
and at last reached your home. Dixi ! ” 

Warren, who during this long story had taken 
care to keep his pipe alight, and had, moreover, 
nearly drained the bottle of port placed before 
him, now declared himself ready to listen to his 
friend’s confession. But Hermann had been sad- 
dened by all he had heard, and was in no humor 
for talking ; he remarked that it was getting late, 


152 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


and proposed to postpone any further conversation 
till the morrow. 

Warren merely replied, ‘Wery well,” knocked 
the ashes out of his pipe, shared out the remain- 
der of the wine between his host and himself, 
and raising his glass, said, in a somewhat solemn 
tone, “ To our youth, Hermann ! ” After empty- 
ing his glass at one draught, he replaced it on the 
table, and said, complacently: ‘Ht is long since I 
have drunk with so much pleasure ; for this time 
I have not drunk to forgetfulness, but to memory.” 


11 . 

Warren spent another week in Leipsic with 
hm friend. No man was easier to live with : to every 
suggestion of Hermann’s he invariably answered, 
“Very well ; ” and if Hermann proposed nothing, 
he was quite content to remain seated in a com- 
fortable arm-chair by the fireside, holding a book 
which he scarcely looked at, and watching the 
long rolls of smoke from his pipe. He disliked 
new acquaintances ; nevertheless, the friends to 
whom Hermann introduced him found in him a 
quiet, unobtrusive, and well-informed companion. 
He pleased everybody. There was something 
strange and yet attractive in his person ; there was 
a “ charm ” about him, people said. Hermann felt 
the attraction without being able to define in what 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


153 


it consisted. Their former friendship had been 
renewed unreservedly. The kind of fascination 
that Warren exercised over all those who ap- 
proached him, often led Hermann to think that it 
was not unlikely that in his youth he had inspired 
a real love in Ellen Gilmore. 

One evening Hermann took his friend to the 
theatre, where a comic piece was being performed. 
In his young days Warren had been very partial 
to plays of that kind, and his joyous peals of laugh- 
ter on such occasions still rang in the ears of his 
friend. But the attempt was a complete failure. 
Warren watched the performance without show- 
ing the slightest interest, and never even smiled. 
During the opening scenes he listened with atten- 
tion, as though he were assisting at some perform- 
ance of the legitimate drama ; then, as if he could 
not understand what was going on before his eyes, 
he turned away with a wearied air and began 
looking at the audience. When, at the close of 
the second act, Hermann proposed that they should 
leave the house, he answered readily: 

‘‘Yes, let us go ; all this seems very stupid — 
we will be much better at home. There is a time 
for all things, and buffoonery suits me no longer.” 

There was nothing left in Warren of the friend 
that Hermann had known fifteen years before. 
He loved him none the less ; on the contrary, to 
his affection for him had been superadded a feel- 
ing of deep compassion. He would have made 


154 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


great sacrifices to secure his friend’s happiness, 
and to see a smile light up the immovable features 
and the sorrowful dullness of the eye. His friend- 
ly anxiety had not been lost upon Warren ; and 
when the latter took his leave, he said, with emo- 
tion : 

“You wish me well, my old friend. I see it 
and feel it ; and, believe me, I am grateful. We 
must not lose sight of each other again — I will 
write regularly.” 

A few days later Hermann received a letter for 
his friend. It was an American letter, and the 
envelope was stamped with the initials “E. H.” 
They were those of Ellen Howard, the heroine of 
Warren’s sad history. He forwarded the letter 
immediately, and wrote at the same time to his 
friend, “I hope the inclosed brings you good 
news from America.” But in his reply Warren 
took no notice of this passage, and made no allu- 
sion to Ellen. He only spoke of the new house in 
which he had just settled himself — “ to end,” as 
he said, “ his days ; ” and he pressed Hermann to 
come and join him. The two friends at last agreed 
to pass Christmas and New-Year’s-day together ; 
but, when December came, Warren urged his 
friend to hasten his arrival. 

“ I do not feel well,” he wrote, “ and am often so 
weary that I stay at home all day. I have made 
no new acquaintances, and, most likely, will make 
none. I am alone. Your society would give me 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


155 


great pleasure. Come; your room is ready, and will 
be, I trust, to your liking. There are a large writ- 
ing-table and tolerably well-filled book-shelves ; 
you can write there quite at your ease, without 
fear of disturbance. Come as soon as possible, 
my dear friend. I am expecting you impatiently.” 

Hermann happened to be at leisure, and was 
able to comply with his friend’s wish, and to go 
to him in the first week of December. He found 
Warren looking worn and depressed. It was in 
vain he sought to induce him to consult a phy- 
sician. Warren would reply: 

‘^Doctors can do nothing for my complaint. I 
know where the shoe pinches. A physician would 
order me probably to seek relaxation and amuse- 
ment, just as he would advise a poor devil whose 
blood is impoverished by bad food to strengthen 
himself with a generous diet and good wine. The 
poor man could not afford to get the good living, 
and I do not know what could enliven or divert 
me. Travel ? I like nothing so well as sitting 
quietly in my arm-chair. New faces ? They would 
not interest me — yours is the only company I pre- 
fer to solitude. Books? I am too old to take 
pleasure in learning new things, and what I have 
learned has ceased to interest me. It is not al- 
ways easy to get what might do one good, and we 
must take things as they are.” 

Hermann noticed, as before, that his friend ate 
little, but that, on the other hand, he drank a good 


156 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


deal. The sincere friendship he felt for him em- 
boldened him to make a remark on the subject. 

“ It is true,” said Warren, ‘‘ I drink too much ; 
but what can I do ? Food is distasteful to me, 
and I must keep up my strength somehow. I am 
in a wretched state ; my health is ruined.” 

One evening, as the two friends were seated 
together in Warren’s room, while the wind and 
sleet were beating against the window-panes, the 
invalid began of his own accord to speak about 
Ellen. 

^‘We now correspond regularly,” he said. 
“ She tells me in her last letter that she hopes soon 
to see me. Do you know, Hermann, that she is 
becoming an enigma for me ? It is very evident 
that she does not treat me like other people, and 
I often wonder and ask myself what I am in her 
eyes ? What does she feel toward me ? Love ? 
That is inadmissible. Pity, perhaps ? This, then, 
is the end of my grand dreams — to be an object 
of pity ? I have just answered her letter to say 
that I am settled here with the fixed intention of 
ending my useless existence in quiet and idleness. 
Do you remember a scene in Heinrich Heine’s 
‘ Reisebilder,’ when a young student kisses a pret- 
ty girl, who lets him have his own way, and makes 
no great resistance, because he has told her, ‘I 
will be gone to-morrow at dawn, and I will never 
see you again ! ’ The certainty of never seeing a 
person again gives a man the courage to say things 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


157 


that otherwise he would have kept hidden in the 
most secret depths of his being. I feel that my 
life is drawing to a close. Do not say no, my 
dear friend ; my presentiments are certain. I 
have written it to Ellen. I have told her other 
things besides. What folly ! All I have ever 
done has been folly or chimera. I end my life 
logically, in strict accordance with my whole past, 
by making my first avowal of love on my death- 
bed. Is not that as useless a thing as can be ? ” 

Hermann would have wished to know some 
particulars about this letter, but Warren replied, 
somewhat vaguely ; “ If I had a copy of my letter, 
I would show it to you willingly. You know my 
whole story, and I would not be ashamed to lay 
before you my last act of folly. I wrote about a 
fortnight ago, when I felt sure that death was 
drawing near. I was in a fever, not from fear — 
Death gains but little by taking my life — but 
from a singular species of excitement. I do not 
remember what were the words I used. Who 
knows? Perhaps this last product of my brain 
may have been quite a poetical performance. Nev- 
er mind ! I do not repent of what I have done ; 
I am glad that Ellen should know at last that I 
have loved her silently and hopelessly. If that is 
not disinterested, what is ? ” he added, with a bit- 
ter smile. 

Christmas went by sadly. Warren was now 
so weak that he could scarcely leave his bed for 


158 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


two or three hours each day. Hermann had taken 
upon himself to send for a doctor, hut this latter 
had scarcely known what to prescribe. Warren 
was suffering from no special malady ; he was 
dying of exhaustion. Now and then, during a 
few moments, which became daily more rare and 
more brief, his vivacity would return ; but the 
shadow of Death was already darkening his mind. 

On New-Year’s-eve he got up very late. “We 
will welcome in the New- Year,” he said to Her- 
mann. “ I hope it may bring you happiness ; I 
know it will bring me rest.” A few minutes be- 
fore midnight, he opened the piano, and played 
with solemnity, and as if it had been a choral, a 
song of Schumann’s, entitled “To the Drinking- 
Cup of a Departed Friend.” Then, on the first 
stroke of midnight, he filled two glasses vdth some 
old Hhenish wine, and raised his own glass slowly. 
He was very pale, and his eyes were shining with 
feverish light. He was in a state of strange and 
fearful excitement. He looked at the glass which 
he held, and repeated deliberately a verse of the 
song which he had just been playing. “ The vul- 
gar cannot understand what I see at the bottom 
of this cup.” Then, at one draught, he drained 
the full glass. 

While he was thus speaking and drinking, he 
had taken no notice of Hermann, who was watch- 
ing him with consternation. Recovering himself 
at length, he exclaimed : “ Another glass, Her- 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


159 


mann ! To friendship ! ” He drained this second 
glass, like the first, to the very last drop ; and 
then, exhausted by the effort he had made, he 
sank heavily on a chair. Soon after, Hermann led 
him, like a sleepy child, to his bed. 

During the days that followed, he was unable 
to leave his room ; and the doctor thought it right 
to warn Hermann that all the symptoms seemed 
to point to a fatal issue. 

On the 8th of January a servant from the 
hotel in the little neighboring town brought a let- 
ter, which, he said, required an immediate answer. 
The sick man was then lying almost unconscious. 
Hermann broke the seal without hesitation, and 
read as follows : 

“ My dear Friend : A visit to Europe, which 
my father had long planned, has at last been un- 
dertaken. I did not mention it to you, in order 
to have the pleasure of surprising you. On reach- 
ing this place, I learn that the illness of which 
you spoke in your last letter has not yet left you. 
Under these circumstances, I will not venture to 
present myself without warning you of my arrival, 
and making sure that you are able to receive me. 
I am here with my brother, who, like myself, 
would not come so near to you without seeing 
you. My father has gone on to Paris, where 
Francis and I will join him in a few days. 

Ellen.” 


160 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


Hermann, after one instant’s thought, took up 
his hat and dismissed the messenger, saying he 
would give the answer himself. At the hotel he 
sent in his card, with the words, “ From Mr. War- 
ren,” and was immediately ushered into Ellen’s 
presence. 

She was alone. Hermann examined her rapid- 
ly. He saw an extremely beautiful woman, whose 
frank and fearless eyes were fixed on him with a 
questioning look. 

Hermann had not frequented the society of 
women much, and was usually rather embarrassed 
in their presence. But on this occasion he thought 
only of his friend, and found no difficulty in ex- 
plaining the motive of his visit. He told her his 
friend was ill — very ill — dying — and that he had 
opened the letter addressed to Warren. Ellen did 
not answer for some time ; she seemed not to have 
understood what she had heard. After a while 
her eyes filled with tears, and she asked whether 
she could see Mr. Warren. On Ilermann answer- 
ing in the affirmative, she further inquired wheth- 
er her brother might accompany her. 

“Two visitors might fatigue the invalid too 
much,” said Hermann ; “ your brother may come 
later.” 

“ Are vou not afraid that my visit may tire 
him?” 

“I do not think so ; it will make him very 
happy.” 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 


161 


Ellen only took a few minutes to put on her 
Hat and cloak, and they started. The short jour- 
ney was accomplished in silence. When they 
reached the house, Hermann went in iirst to see 
how the dying man was. He was lying in his 
bed, in the delirium of fever, muttering incohe- 
rent sentences. Nevertheless, he recognized Her- 
mann, and asked for something to drink. After 
having allayed his thirst, he closed his eyes, as if 
to sleep. 

I have brought you a friend,” said Hermann ; 
will you see him ? ” 

Hermann ? He is always welcome.” 

“ No ; it is a friend from America.” 

From America ? . . . I lived there many years. 
How desolate and monotonous were the shores I 
visited ! . . .” 

Will you see your friend ? ” 

“ I am carried away by the current of the river. 
In the distance I see dark and shadowy forms ; 
there are hills full of shade and coolness, . . . but 
I will never rest there.” 

Hermann retired noiselessly, and returned al- 
most immediately with Ellen. 

Warren, who had taken no notice of him, con- 
tinued to follow the course of his wandering 
thoughts. 

“ The river is drawing near to the sea. Al- 
ready I can hear the roar of the waves. . . . The 
banks are beginning to be clothed with verdure. 

11 


162 the PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 

The hills are drawing nearer. . . . It is dark now. 
Here are the big trees beneath which I have 
dreamed so often. A radiant apparition shines 
through their foliage. ... It comes toward me. 
. . . Ellen!” 

She was standing beside the bed. The dying 
man saw her, and without showing the least sur- 
prise, said with a smile : Thank God ! you have 
come in time. I knew you were coming.” 

He murmured a few unintelligible words, and 
then remained silent for a long while. His eyes 
were wide open. Suddenly he cried, Hermann ! ” 
Hermann came and stood beside Ellen. 

“ The pendulum. . . .You know what I mean ? ” 
A frank, childish smile — the smile of his student- 
days — lighted up his pallid face. He raised his 
right hand, and tracing in the air with his fore- 
finger a wide semicircle, to imitate the oscillation 
of a pendulum, he said, ‘‘ Then ! ” He then figured 
in the same manner a more limited and slower 
movement, and, after repeating it several times, 
said, “ Now ! ” Lastly, he pointed straight before 
him with a motionless and almost menacing fin- 
ger, and said, with a weak voice, Soon ! ” 

He spoke no more, and closed his eyes. The 
breathing was becoming very difficult. 

Ellen bent over him, and called him softly, 
“ Henry, Henry ! ” He opened his eyes. She 
brought her mouth close to his ear, and said, with 
a sob, I have always loved you.” 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. 163 

I knew it from tlie first,” he said, quietly and 
with confidence. 

A gentle expression stole over his countenance, 
and life seemed to return. Once more he had the 
confident look of youth. A sad and beautiful 
smile played on his lips ; he took the hand of El- 
len in his, and kissed it gently. 

“ How do you feel now ? ” inquired Hermann. 

The old answer, “ Yery well.” 

His hands were plucking at the bedclothes, as if 
he strove to cover his face with them. Then his 
arms stiffened and the fingers remained motionless. 

“ Yery well,” he repeated. 

He appeared to fall into deep thought. There 
was a long pause. At last he turned a dying look, 
fraught with tender pity and sadness, toward El- 
len, and in a low voice, which was scarcely audible, 
he said these two words, with a slight emphasis on 
the first — ‘^Perfectly well.” 


THB BNDo 



APPLETONS’ 


COLLECTION OF FOREIGN AUTHORS. 


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From the French of Andre Theuriet. Paper cover, 50 cents ; 
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THE -we EIVE ITsT. 

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